


THE COLLECTION

by BlackGeranium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5898955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackGeranium/pseuds/BlackGeranium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Even the strongest of us sometimes break. When Dean and Cas<br/>return from Carthage without Sam, Bobby wonders if this time it will be Dean.<br/>Set in Season 5, post Abandon All Hope.<br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


**PROLOGUE:  
HOW SOFT YOUR FIELDS SO GREEN, CAN WHISPER TALES OF GORE**   


> The human psyche is very resilient. It can be tortured and broken and it can heal only to have the cycle repeated. It’s like a heavy ceramic vase that knocks around your cabinet and never chips or cracks… until, finally, it does. With each successive knock the vase becomes more and more vulnerable until it splinters and breaks. While it can be pieced together and made whole again, signs of its breakage will always remain.
> 
> The human psyche once splintered, can sometimes find refuge and safety in those fragments. It learns to use fragmenting as a coping mechanism. Continued stressors can result in additional fragments building an ever increasing safety net making the whole more than the sum of the parts. These fragments can each hold a piece of the whole, never to be confused with the whole in its uninterrupted entirety.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**PART I:**  
**IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH, I WAS TOLD WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A MAN**

  


  
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|≡|≡|≡|≡|  
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“How did you hurt your hands?”

Wide timid green eyes looked away from her and peered down at his lap. But she wasn’t sure what he was seeing as he started to gently rock again. He wrapped his hands into his tee shirt and kept rocking. The rotating shadows of the fan held his attention for a while. The room was strange. Round. Covered in iron. You’d think it would be cold. But it was really warm. And quiet.

He shook his head minutely, but, still, there was no answer to her question.

He kept his movements small. She read fear in each one. Rising from the hard metal chair that was already killing her back she went toward him and bent to his eye level. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and was pleased when he didn’t draw away. She kept her voice soft as she held his gaze, “Your hands are bandaged. Can you tell me how that happened? You know, Miss Missouri would never hurt you, right?”

“You should just tell, ya know.” Sitting cross-legged on the chair, chin propped in his hand, elbow digging into his knee, it made his voice sound smaller than usual. “You should not keep secrets from th’ doctor.” 

Missouri’s brows rose in surprise. 

“Dude! Dude! C’mon! Just tell ‘er so we can get out of here, wouldjya!” An exasperated sigh followed by rolled eyes as a foot hit the ground with a thump. “Sheesh!” Arms folded around him, “ya think what she was askin’ for…” he let out a long huff, “like tellin’ her is gonna make a big difference!” 

“Be quiet.” A calm baritone broke through the comforting whirring of the overhead fan. 

She shifted after scribbling a few quick notes, “Can you explain what happened?”

Exasperation met annoyance, “I don’t remember.” Tired green eyes studied bandaged hands again before leveling their gaze at the slightly rotund woman with skin the color of dark chocolate and a voice just as richly sweet. He knew better than to trust that. He trusted few and she wasn’t one. Plus, he just didn’t like doctors. He liked her better when he thought she was just a psychic. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll be fine.”

A heavy silence filled the room. The dull metal blades beat the air without mercy. Dust motes wafted down in the shafts of light coming through the blade’s openings. Had they made any sound at all it would have been thunderous.

But it was silent, dense with expectation.

With his legs curled under him on the shallow seat, playful but nervous fingers played with the wrinkles the cloth made at the knee. His eyes widened as he listened, but he remained focused on the fascinating folds in his jeans. He ran an exploratory finger through them chasing something only he saw or imagined. 

“I know you want to get out of here,” Missouri kept her voice soft, non-threatening. “I think I can help you. I’m sure you’d like it a whole lot better if I just left you alone, huh?”

“Don’t you see,” a small, sure voice took caught her by surprise as did the wide-eyed look. 

“See what?” She waited for him to answer. She didn’t push. 

His face scrunched as he shook his head, “He don’t like talkin’ or being by himself, Miss Missouri. That’s why he gotta have his Mushie.” 

She jotted a note to herself.

“Hey! Whataya writin,” the sneer was evident, “leave’im alone! He’s a kid and he don’t wanna talk so just leave it! Jeeze,” he muttered, “no one leaves the friggin’ kid alone!”

Missouri studied the slumped way he sat in the chair, “You seem quite angry.” She softened her look as she showed him her pad, “I’m just writing reminders to myself so I can keep things straight. Don’t you do that?”

“Nah… Sammy’s the smart one.” He slumped further and jammed his arms across him, his hands folded under his arms.

The doctor’s brows rose ever so slightly, and she nodded slowly. “I see.” She leaned toward him and kept her voice level, “Can _you_ tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened t’my hands,” he scoffed, “it happened to his!” His lips clamped tight in a thin line, “If he wanted to tell ya, he would!”

Missouri wondered at his ability to deny the pain he had to be feeling, to deny the bandages so clearly wrapping his hand. But, she continued, “Who would tell me?”

A frustrated sigh filled the silence, “Sheesh! The kid, Dee, or the other one, Trig! They probly know!”

“But you don’t know how your hands got hurt?”

“I did not hurt my hands!” He snorted again, “He hurt them! Mine are fine! See.” He held up his hands but Missouri didn’t see anything different than she had before.

Missouri studied him more closely. She threw a glance toward the small window cut into the steel door and gave a tiny shake of her head.

“Please, Ma’am, uhm, Doctor Missouri, don’t do that.”

She swung around. He sounded older than he probably should, but so young sitting with his chin propped up in his hand.

“Don’t do what?” 

She didn’t get an answer right away. She wasn’t expecting one. The silences that punctuated the room were becoming another participant. 

“That,” he nodded toward the door. “Don’t tell them stuff. I really don’t want to get in trouble, ma’am.” He sat up taller in his chair, “Just leave the kid alone. He has enough crap to deal with, more than any other kid should have to and you just keep pushin’ him. It’s not right, ma’am, you know? He’s a kid.”

Missouri nodded slowly, “I agree. He’s had to cope with much more than any child should. So’ve you.” She looked at him with soft eyes, “What’s a Mushie? D’you know? Does Dean?”

It was several minutes before she got an answer. It wasn’t what she was expecting, but at this point, she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The scrape of a chair caught her attention. She followed him as he circled the room like a caged animal. 

“He don’t friggin’ know!” 

“Are you sure,” Missouri posed the question delicately but without a speck of confrontation in her tone.

“’Course he doesn’t know,” he growled, “what’s some demon hunter know about a Mushie! Sheesh!”

Missouri took a deep breath. The anger rolled off him in waves she could nearly touch. There was resignation too, underneath, but the resentment was palpable. And refreshing. The anger was better than the stoic calm that she’d seen before.

“Do you know what it is?”

“’Course I know,” he snorted softly with more irritation that disgust, “it’s his bear. Little thing, real soft. Bluish. Lost it.”

“And he doesn’t talk without it,” she asked softly putting all her empathy into the six simple words, “is that right?”

“Yeah.”

  
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|≡|≡|≡|≡|  
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Bobby wheeled from the stairs to the small workbench that lined the back wall. He turned his chair and wheeled back to the stairs.

“You know you’ve done that about thirty-six times now.” Cas’ voice was quiet and tense as his eyes tracked another of Bobby’s circuits.

Bobby snorted as he paused and then continued to make another round. “I can’t look again.”

Cas nodded remembering how Bobby’s face looked pained as he hoisted himself up to look through the small glass cutting into the iron door. The Angel glanced through that same window again. “I think she’s coming out.”

Bobby swung his chair to face the door and waited. Both men seemed to hold their breath waiting. The basement was quiet in expectation.

They didn’t have to wait long before the heavy door of the panic room swung open more smoothly than appearance would warrant. She closed the door slowly to lessen its piercing clang. Rubbing the tension from the back of her neck, she let out a soft breath. “It’s a lot worse, more complicated that we imagined.”

Her eyes raked over Castiel as she leaned against the door. “I can hear you thinking, Angel.”

His brows rose slightly in surprise, “I will try to think more quietly, then.”

Missouri closed her eyes to gather herself and smiled at the angel and glanced over at Bobby, “What the hell happened out there? I know that only a few survived Carthage, but what in the name of all that is holy went on out there?” She let out an exhausted sigh as she looked back into the room, “And what’s this Mushie?” 

“Mushie? What mushie,” Bobby snorted gruffly, “how the hell should I know?”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Bobby, “A stuffed toy, I think. Bluish bear, really soft?”

Bobby’s grumpy façade crumbled as he paled. His eyes widened in recognition.

Missouri pushed away from the door, “You know it?”

Bobby swung his chair to look at Castiel, “Pick me up,” he demanded, “I need to get upstairs.”

Without hesitation Cas scooped the old man from the chair and with a soft flutter had moved them effortlessly up the stairs to the main part of the house. “Where?”

“Back bedroom. Behind the kitchen.” In any other circumstances Bobby would have felt embarrassed being held like a bride and carried through his own home. Cas burst through the door Bobby pointed out. It wasn’t so much a bedroom anymore. It was a store room of odd bits of furniture, bookcases waiting to be filled and some filled already with small magazines that had pictures on their covers. Leaning against the windows was an old bicycle and a tall chest of drawers.

“There,” Bobby pointed toward the window. “Put me down and get that trunk out from under that bike.”

Cas looked for a place to put the man and spied an old chair laden with books. With a small sweep of his hand the books were cleared and he gently deposited Bobby to the chair. Turning he moved the bike away from the window with a quick twitch of his hand and with a sweep of his other hand the trunk slid in front of Bobby.

It opened easily although with the creak born of too little use and long closure. It was filled with all manner of toys and other bits and pieces of the detritus of a child’s life. In mere seconds of rooting through, Bobby’s hand came out bearing a soft, light blue, stuffed teddy bear who’s bald patches of fur were a testament to how well loved it had been once.

Bobby nodded to the angel, “Let’s go.”

Castiel looked at the small stuffed bear, “That’s a mushie?” He took Bobby into his arms again and headed toward the basement.

“No,” Bobby groused, “this is MUSHIE. That’s its name. God!” He shook his head in self-disgust. “I completely forgot about it. Haven’t heard its name in forever! Can’t believe I forgot… used to have it all the time,” his voice faded into silence as he remembered the first time he’d met Mushie.

_Bobby hated seeing Dean crying. For a six-year-old he’d shed entirely too many tears. And he cried like an old man. Silently as he carefully spooned the soup he’d put in front of him. He couldn’t help seeing kid’s hand fisted and resting on his leg, hidden under the table away from eyes that would deride the stress the boy felt._

_“Dee?”_

_Bobby turned in the direction of the two-year-old toddling into the kitchen from the living room where he’d left the kid watching cartoons. At two Sammy was just too in tune to his older brother._

_“Yeah, Sammy?”_

_Sam reached his tiny hand up tenderly touching Dean’s cheek that was still pink from where the broom fell on it._

_“No cry.” His little hand stroked his brother’s face gently. “It hurt?” Sammy was tall for his age and Dean was so hunched over that the kid could actually reach his brother. If he stood on his toes._

_Dean gave his little brother a watery smile, “I’m okay, Sammy.” He took his brothers small hand from his face, “It’s all right. Okay?”_

_Sammy nodded but his eyes filled with tears. He ran out of the room and returned in just seconds. “Here.”_

_Bobby couldn’t have been more surprised as Sammy held out the small blue teddy bear that he carried with him everywhere. That bear never left Sammy’s side. Hell, the kid slept with it, took baths with it._

_Dean looked at the small plush toy. He smiled softly, “You want me to have Mushie?”_

_Sammy nodded. “He good. He make cry go ‘way.”_

Bobby handed the small bear to Missouri. She looked at the battered plush toy with a mixture of awe and understanding. Her soft eyes looked pained as she held Bobby’s.

Their silent communication sent Castiel’s brows nearly up into his hairline. He sucked in a small breath at the sensation of his vessel’s heart feeling as if it was being squeezed tight and not in a good way.

Opening the door Missouri stepped over the threshold. She stood for a moment and felt Bobby wheel up behind her. Green eyes snapped to hers and she held out the small bear.

It dangled from her outstretched hand for seconds as those verdant eyes searched hers, filling with tears of recognition. His breath hitched as he awkwardly took it from her with his least bandaged hand and cradled it to his broad chest. Glancing up he looked past her and retreated as far from her as he could and slid down against the wall. Tears fell as he tenderly murmured to the soft toy what he wouldn’t or couldn’t tell her.

“I don’t understand,” Cas whispered as he remained standing slightly behind and to the left of Missouri. “Dean is such a strong man. Even when I pulled him from Hell he was not like this. What is happening? Why…”

“That, Angel,” Missouri said softly, “is a man that has taken on more pain than any person should. Maybe not physical, but, definitely, psychological. A whole lotta pain for too long a time.” She looked down as she heard what could only be a choked back sob.

Bobby’s throat furiously convulsed to keep the sob that desperately wanted to escape. Seeing Dean, his strong, capable Dean balled up in the corner like a child with that small over-used, loved-nearly-to-death one-eyed bear broke his heart. He thought he could actually feel it break, tear at seeing his Dean pouring out all his pain to the stuffed toy.

Finally, he wheeled himself away from the door of the panic room. He couldn’t stand seeing Dean so broken. He felt a warm hand land on his shoulder. He wanted it to be Dean telling him, as he always did that he was fine, he was okay. It had been so long since the boy was fine that everyone around him tended to forget that he was anything but fine. 

He covered the angel’s hand with his own for a brief moment before pulling further away from the door.

Missouri heard the steady chant coming from the corner, “Found you. Can’t find Sammy. Lost you. Found you. Dee keep Mushie safe. All safe. Can’t find Sammy. Lost Sammy. Can’t find’im. Saved you. Dee keep Mushie safe. All safe. Sammy not safe. Can’t find Sammy.”

Over and over the same words. She sat and listened. She tried to soothe him. She tried to get him to talk to her.

But, the answer remained the same, “Lost you. Found you. Dean keep Mushie safe. All safe. Can’t find Sammy. Lost Sammy. Can’t find’im. Saved you. Couldn’t save Sammy, Lost ‘im, Promised to take careovv’im, can’t find’im, is bad Mushie, can’t find’im...”

  
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Missouri exited the room knowing there was nothing in it that could be troublesome other than the young broken man crying in the corner. Closing the door behind her, she let out a long deep breath.

Her eyes fell on Bobby’s. She pretended not to see him roughly brush at the tear streaks that marked his face.

“Well?”

She shook her head, “I can’t reach him like this.” She looked back through the small window. “He’s regressed somewhere in his own mind. To a safe place?”

Bobby snorted, “There’s no place safe for that kid!” He blew out a disgusted breath, “You know how he got that bear?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, “IT was Sam’s. When he was a baby. He gave it to Dean. Two year old Sammy gave it to Dean because he was crying after his bastard father yelled at him for leaving Sam alone in his playpen while he went outside to play with Butch!”

“Butch? A friend,” she asked with interest.

“No,” Bobby groused, “Dean didn’t have any friends. Butch was my dog then. Dean loved to play with him, run around like any normal six year old would and should.” He wiped his hand over his mouth as if to keep from throwing up at his own words, “But NO! Not Dean! HE had to be Daddy and Mommy to a friggin’ two year old!” He spun his chair away from Missouri and Cas, “Damn fool man, couldn’t see the damage he was doing to his own! Sonovabitch!”

Missouri placed a comforting hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “The bear. Mushie?” He spun to face her. “What do you know about it?”

“More than I’d like,” Bobby’s voice took on a nostalgic tone as he remembered how Dean got Mushie.

_“Where’s Dean?”_

_Bobby’s head snapped around at John’s angry tone, “He’s playing.” He glanced outside, lowering the flame under the soup he was heating, “He’s with Butch.” He smiled at the laughter filtering in through the open kitchen window. The smile fell from his face as John’s became pink with anger. “You gotta problem with that?”_

_John turned on his heel and slammed out the back door. “DEAN!”_

_Bobby heard John thunder down the stairs, Dean’s laughter ceased. Not a minute later John slammed back into the house with his son by the scruff of his neck. “I told you to mind Sammy! What the hell were you doing? You stay where I tellya ta stay, ye hear me, boy?”_

_“Daddy! You’re hurting me!_

_“You hear me, boy?”_

_“Yessir, I hear.” Dean let out a small sob as tears started to streak his small face. “I jus wanta play with Butch! Sammy sleepin!”_

_“Well, he’s awake now! And, I told you to stay with him,” John sputtered, “and quit your crying before I give you something to really cry about! Stop being such a baby!”_

_Dean let out another sob while he was trying so desperately to stop._

_Bobby’s heart stuttered at the fear he heard in the little boy’s voice. It nearly stopped as John opened the door to the small broom closet and deposited his son in it and slamming the door. “Now you stay in there until you learn to stay where I tell ya to stay, dammit!”_

_“Get out of my house.” Bobby’s voice was cold. Hard. A heavy silence stretched between them broken only by Dean’s small whimpers through the thick oak door._

_John turned toward Bobby, “Don’t interfere, Bobby. This is not your concern.”_

_Bobby came out of the kitchen, “It is in my house.” He kept his voice as level as possible hiding the anger that was nearly choking him, “Now, get out until you cool off. You have no idea what you’re doing to your own kid! He was fucking playing!” His anger was getting the best of him and John would have had to be deaf not to hear it. “That’s what little boys do, John… they play! They don’t babysit their two year old brother when they’re only fuckin’ six years old!” Bobby took in a breath, “Get out now before I call the cops on one of my oldest friends. Think about what you’re doing to your kid!”_

_John’s mouth firmed into a tight line, “You don’t tell me how to take care of my kids. You let him stay in there ‘til he calms down.”_

_“GET OUT!”_

_Bobby strode toward him and held the door. “NOW, John!” He didn’t flinch under the younger man’s glare as he finally exited the house. Bobby caught Sam peeking from the back bedroom, tears already coursing down his chubby cheeks. He waited until he heard John’s car crunch over the gravel as he left the yard before he pulled the closet door open and pulled Dean out of the darkness._

“You know sometimes I can still feel his little arms hugging around my neck,” Bobby’s voice was quiet as he remembered. “I sat Dean down in the kitchen. Gave him some of the soup I’d been fixin’,” he glanced up at Cas and Missouri, “kid was a mess. But so quiet, tears just streaming, hunching over his bowl like a little old man,” he trailed off quietly.

He heard Missouri’s sigh and hum of understanding.

“I should have done more,” Bobby said quietly, “but, those days you didn’t interfere with how a parent raised their kids, you know?” He looked up at Missouri and saw a grudging understanding in her eyes.

“Why not,” Cas asked, “why would you not interfere if you know what a parent is doing is wrong? Or hurting their child?”

Bobby shrugged, “It’s not a good answer, but you just didn’t.” He let out a ragged sigh, “I thought John would be different after that,” he peered over at the door to the panic room as if seeing right through it, “he was so apologetic when he got home. Gave Dean a big hug, told him he was sorry he lost his temper. I guess,” Bobby let out another deep breath, “I guess he was just more careful with how he reacted when he was here. God, I’m such a dupe! Idjit!”

He wheeled away from them in disgust, “Bastard! If the bastard wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself!”

The sudden angry pounding on the metal door rang through the basement interrupting their conversation about the past. It brought them all back to the here and now.

“HEY!” The dull thud of Dean’s boot hitting the base of the door shot through the silence, again.

“D’you lock it,” Bobby looked up at Missouri, “you can’t lock him in places. He gets, well, you see how he gets.”

“It’s not locked.”

“BOBBY! OPEN THE DOOR!” Another sharp kick shook the iron door enough to make Cas and Bobby jump. “BOBBY! YOU KNOW I HATE BEING CLOSED IN! BOBBY! C’MON, MAN!”

Bobby backed up his chair to better look up at Missouri and Cas. “Then why does he think it is locked? He should know that I’d never lock him in anywhere. Why would he think that?”

 

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	3. Chapter 3

**PART II:**  
**CRYIN’ WON’T HELP YOU, PRAYIN’ WON’T DO YOU NO GOOD**   


≡  


**THE PREVIOUS DAY**

Missouri walked quietly into the bedroom. She’d been truly shocked to get Bobby’s call. It had been years since they’d talked. She wasn’t as involved with the hunter community as she had been once. It was too much after a while. Her life needed a new direction. But, now, it seemed that direction was just what one of the Winchester boys needed. Maybe both of them, but right now helping Dean was at the top of her list.

It was the helping that was up in the, proverbial, air at the moment. And meeting the angel? That took her back a bit. Learning about Dean’s time in hell? Just the thought sent cold shivers down her spine.

But seeing the figure curled into the fetal position in the center of the small bed filled her with a cold dread.

She glanced down at Bobby, “How long,” she nodded to the bed, “has he been like this?”

“Since yesterday morning,” Bobby whispered back, “and before this it was as I told you on the phone. And I hate like all hell to say this, but there’s no time for him to be like this. The last hunt went so badly.”

“How bad?”

“Horrific would be an understatement. I wasn’t there,” he waved his hands over his damaged body, “but he came back without Sam and two others, Ellen and Jo Harvelle.”

Missouri let out a small sigh, “Dead?”

Bobby sucked in a deep breath, “The Harvelle’s, yeah. Sam,” he shook his head, “I’m not sure. I’m not sure Dean knows.”

“How did he hurt his hands,” she nodded to the bandages she could see from the doorway.

“Don’t know.”

Missouri considered what he’d said, or didn’t for a moment. She thought back on all the times she’d seen Dean and Sam as young boys and then as a young men. There were so many times when both boys needed so much more than they were getting, but especially Dean.

She leaned back in the chair and turned toward Bobby, “What do you know? What the hell happened?”

“Carthage happened, Hell happened – the real one, Death happened,” Bobby groused, “what didn’t happen is the better question!” He pushed back and turned his chair toward the door. “Not here.” It was too painful to look at the bed. And this was not the place to recount what Dean had told him. He wheeled himself into the hallway and headed toward the kitchen. Missouri rose and followed.

Bobby sat two cups on the table and poured steaming coffee into both. He didn’t bother with cream or sugar. His voice was hushed as he remembered what Dean told him.

“Carthage, Missouri. That’s where…” he took a sip from his cup, “I guess you could call it the jumping off point for the coming big bad, the apocalypse. It was the first step, so to speak.” He looked up at Missouri over his cup, “Place was filled with Reapers, just waiting.”

“For what?”

Bobby shook his head, “For who is the better question. For everyone.” He let out a long breath, “Dean and Sam, Jo and Ellen, they went to stop Lucifer.”

Missouri’s brows rose sharply and collapsed in confusion. “As in the Devil, Lucifer?”

Bobby nodded, “As in the Archangel Lucifer, the Morningstar that was cast out of heaven, yep, that’s the one.” He looked away from her and focused on the window over the sink. He noticed how grimy it was getting and thinking how much it needed cleaning. He wasn’t sure what made him notice that now. He probably just needed something mundane to focus on rather than the wackton of crap that had been pouring down on his boys for so long. 

His lips curled up as he remembered Sam always wanting to keep the windows clean.

_“Bobby! You gotta let the sun in! It can’t come in through dirty windows. At least not all the way!”_

He shook off the memory as he gazed back at Missouri, “Carthage was the scene of one of the worst battles of the Civil War, soldiers called it the Battle of Hellhole. With Carthage’s history it was the perfect spot for Lucifer to unleash Death.”

“Death?”

Bobby nodded, “The Angel of Death to be exact.” He shook his head, “Castiel saw the reapers. Jo and Ellen, Dean and Sam were attacked by Hellhounds, Jo got hurt saving Dean from one of those monsters.”

He heard Missouri’s sharp intake of breath, but continued.

“He called me. They were held up in a hardware store. Said Jo was really bad,” his voice softened as he continued. He looked over at Missouri putting down the suddenly too heavy cup. “Cas saw reapers, dozens. He went to investigate and was detained by Lucifer himself, so he wasn’t there to help Jo, even if he was able.” He shook his head in disgust and let out a ragged sigh. “Jo, God, that girl had gumption! She knew she was dying, urged the boys to make bombs, buy them an extra few minutes.” He pushed his ballcap to the back of his head as he ran a frustrated hand through sparse hair, “Ellen stayed behind with her.”

Missouri closed her eyes in silent wonder.

“Dean came back alone. Never said what happened to Sam.”

“What do you think happened?”

Bobby scrubbed at the side of his face in exasperation, “Lucifer wants Sam as his vessel. So, the kid’s not dead, that I’m sure about, unless he offed himself.” He frowned quickly, “I think Lucifer got him or… hell, I don’t know! This is just my best guess!”

“If Lucy doesn’t have ‘im, then my money’s on Michael,” Bobby mused. “He doesn’t want Sam, but he’d keep him from Lucifer. I’m fairly sure about that.”

Missouri nodded as she took in all that Bobby just told her. A pregnant silence loudly filled the room. It was an expectant silence. It was waiting.

“And Hell?” Missouri finally broke the silence, “What about Hell?”

Bobby snorted and filled Missouri in on Sam’s death, Dean’s deal with the Devil, John’s deal to save Dean and Dean’s four decade long stay in hell.

  
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|≡|≡|≡|≡|  
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Missouri took out her knitting as she resumed her seat beside the narrow bed. Every few minutes she looked over to the bed to reassure herself of the occupant’s condition. She looked over at Bobby, “I’m going to sit with him. Be here when he wakes up.”

It wasn’t a long wait before his eyelids fluttered open.

“Hey, Dean,” Missouri grinned, “it’s nice to see you awake.”

He stretched with the glee of a cat waking from a long map in the sun, “I sleep a long time?”

“Mmm, yes.” Missouri was slightly taken aback by the tone of Dean’s voice.

He rubbed at his eyes as he patted around the bed and took on a crestfallen look. “He gone.” He stretched again and just as quickly curled back up.

“Dean?”

Sleepy green eyes locked on her brown ones, “Can you tell me how you hurt yourself?”

“I not hurt. Big boys don’t get hurt,” he giggled softly. Oh! Sorry! Getting hurt is not funny. I gotta keep Sam from gettin’ hurt…” he trailed off. He curled tighter into himself. Sleepy eyes became a vacant stare.

Missouri sat back and let out a small sigh of frustration.

“Dean?” She called to him again, but got no response. “Dean?”

His hand reached for the blanket. He drew it tightly around himself and hummed softly as he clutched even more tightly to the blankets.

≡  


**THAT EVENING**

“Hey, Bobby! Is that coffee I’m smelling!” Missouri and Bobby looked up from their respective coffee cups as Dean ambled into the room awkwardly tugging on a flannel shirt that was catching on his bandages.

“Missouri! Hey,” He gave the woman a grin, “when did you get here?” He moved over to the counter and poured a fresh cup for himself, “you guys need topping off?”

“No,” Bobby answered, “we’re good.”

“So,” Dean threw a leg over a chair and joined them, “I hear you became a doctor?” He looked disdainfully at the peanut butter jar still sitting on the table. He pushed it away, “Who was eating this stuff?” He took a deep sip of his coffee, “So, from psychic to doctor? How does that happen?”

“A lot of hard work,” Missouri turned back to Dean taking a sip of her coffee. “You missed dinner, you hungry?”

“Famished,” he took a large gulp of his coffee, “but don’t worry about me, I’ll grab something from the fridge.”

Bobby snorted, “And since when do I not have a plate in the oven for you?”

Dean groaned softly, “You are too good to me, man!” He rose swiftly and strode the short distance to the oven. Pulling it open he took a deep sniff, “Pot roast?”

“Yep.”

Dean pulled the plate out and reveled in the scent of meat and gravy, potatoes and carrots. “Good, no green stuff!” After grabbing eating utensils, he retook his seat at the table. “So, Missouri,” he pushed up the sleeves of his shirts as he cut his first bite of roast, “what have you been up to?”

≡  


**THE FOLLOWING DAY**

“How did you hurt your hands?”

His eyes grew wide but still there was no answer to her question.

“How did you hurt yourself? Can you tell me?”

He sat up straight in his chair and looked with wide eyes around the room. 

Missouri waited.

“Dad says it doesn’t matter if you get hurt, not to cry about it. Just do what you need to get patched up and,” he let out a slightly tired sigh, but bucked right up, “I didn’t get hurt.”

“Mmm,” Missouri hummed.

“You a doctor, Miss Missouri?”

She smiled at his question, “I am.”

“I didn’t know that,” he answered with a tinge of wonder in his young voice. “What kind?”

Missouri studied the young man in front of her, “I’m a special kind of doctor. I work with patients that have a special kind of illness.”

His mouth turned down in a small studious frown. He looked down at his hands, “You mean you’re a hand doctor?”

“Well,” Missouri grinned, “in this case, yes. So,” she picked up the legal pad she was using, “why don’t you tell me what happened to your hands while I write myself a note, hmm?”

The scratch of her pen filled the mostly silent room. The overhead fan gently competed with a rhythmic whir.

“Can I see Sammy first?”

Missouri cocked her head at his question, “You know what,” she smiled, “I can see about that. How about I get you a snack and you think about telling me how you hurt your hands. Whattaya say, hmm?”

Wide green eyes nodded and sat up, “That would be really good. T’see Sammy. And, I am a little hungry.”

“Well, then,” Missouri stood and walked over to the door, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  
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She met Bobby’s worried eyes.

“What did he tell you?”

She shook her head, “Nothing. I’m not sure he knows what happened or he’s just not willing to tell me. I don’t want to push him though.” Her eyes slid over to the angel as he peered through the slightly hazy French door that led to Bobby’s study.

Castiel felt the woman’s eyes watching him. He turned slowly, “I forget sometimes how young humans are.”

Missouri raised a brow, “I guess when you’ve lived for millennia, then we’re all young.”

“That is true,” Cas nodded sagely, “but I meant,” he stopped and cocked his head thinking. “It is of no matter. Can you help him? He seems a bit lost.”

Bobby snorted, “Way to understate things there, Angel!”

Missouri reached for the box of crackers and the peanut butter she’d brought down earlier, “He said he was a little hungry.”

“It looks like he’s falling asleep,” Cas said nodding toward the sofa.

Missouri peered over his shoulder, “Ahh. Well,” she let out a soft sigh, “a nap might be just what he needs right now.” She pursed her lips watching her patient curl up on the sofa keeping his hands out in front of him. “Interesting. He sleeps like someone who’s been injured a lot.”

  
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A little over an hour later they heard the TV. Bobby and Missouri listened as the channels changed and finally settled on one of the public stations that aired shows for kids. Missouri looked quizzically at Bobby’s grim expression.

“I ain’t got cable, so, you gotta make do,” he groused.

“Maybe he wants to eat now,” she gathered up the crackers and peanut butter she’d put back onto the counter.

Bobby’s eyes looked up at her hands, “He don’t like peanut butter.”

Missouri pursed her lips, “Okay, well, let’s see.” She started to gather up the snack fixings, but stopped as Bobby held up his hand.

“Hey, Dean!”

“Isz Tommy, Mista Bobby!”

Bobby let out a low whistle, “Damn!”

Missouri’s eyes locked on Bobby’s, “Tommy?”

“Mm,” the hunter nodded, “He’s not been around for a very long time. One day he just disappeared.”

“You didn’t mention him.”

“Like I said,” Bobby looked through the French doors, “he hasn’t been around.” He wheeled to the doorway playing it cool, “You hungry, boy?” 

Tommy nodded from the sofa without taking his eyes from the screen.

“Well, get yourself in here and have something.”

Unfolding himself from the sofa, he turned toward the kitchen. “Oh! Mr. Bobby! How’d you get hurt?”

“It’s not important.” Bobby wheeled to the table, “C’mon. Sit.” He took the snack fixings from Missouri, “You like these, right? Peanut butter on the crackers?”

He nodded enthusiastically, “Th’salty ones?”

“You bet,” Bobby put the package on the table with the spreader and the jar. “Hey, you wantta get Dean? I’m sure he’s hungry, too.”

Tommy thought for a moment, “Nu-uh,” he said around a mouthful of peanut butter loaded cracker. “he lookin’ fer Sammy.”

Bobby exchanged another glance with Missouri, “I’ll be right back,” he spun his chair towards the back door, “Be good Tommy!”

“OKAY!”

Bobby wheeled out onto the small side porch, “CAS!”

“Yes,” the angel appeared immediately. “What is it?”

“I think you need to stick around here for a bit, yeah?”

Castiel nodded slowly, “If that’s what you need. What Dean needs. I will be happy to stay.”

“Good,” Bobby murmured, “good.” He looked up at the angel, “Just… uhm… just, whatever happens, let Missouri lead. Don’t interfere, all right?”

“Of course, Bobby.”

“Good.” Bobby turned his chair around to re-enter the house. Cas pulled the door open for him and gently pushed the chair. “Kitchen or study?”

“You know what?” Bobby craned his neck up to look at Cas, “Can you wheel me around to the front? I need some air.”

“Of course, Bobby.” Cas snapped his fingers and Bobby found himself at the front of his house in the space of an eye blink.

“Nice way to travel,” the hunter grudgingly admitted as he looked up at the angel. “So, you find anything on Sam?”

“Not yet,” Cas answered quickly, “angel radio is quite silent. Unusually so.”

“What about that bastard, Raphael?”

“Not reachable,” Cas answered. “Is everything, no, I suppose they’re not.” He looked out over the salvage yard, “Perhaps I need to broaden my search.”

  
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Missouri sat at the table, “I’d like to talk to him.”

“You wanna talk to Dee?” Tommy bit into another cracker, “He scareda you.” He shoved the rest of the cracker into his mouth and after chewing for a moment he took a sip of the milk Bobby poured for him. He smacked his lips as he buttered another cracker, “He my friend, and he not gonna talk wifout’im.”

“Without Sammy?”

“No. Mushie,” he licked the peanut butter from his next cracker, “he don’t liketa talk wifout Mushie, ‘speshuly when he ascared, ‘cept when hiz daddy make’im.”

He drained the last of the milk. “C’na I be ‘scuzed?”

Missouri nodded.

In seconds the TV was blaring again.

  
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Missouri grabbed her pad and started jotting notes to herself. She wasn’t quite sure that she was the right person to help Dean, especially if what she suspected was true. But, she knew someone who could help. As Missouri made notes and sipped her coffee she was sure she was being watched. She ignored it and concentrated on her notes. _Better not to look up. Yet._

“Whataya writin’,” the sneer was evident in the tone of voice that broke her concentration. Looking up she wasn’t all that surprised with the laconic lean on the door jamb that greeted her.

“I heard you with the kid.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “He don’t talk to just anyone,” he groused and his ire was evident in the rigid set of his shoulders. He tried to hide it in a swagger so typical of teens. 

Missouri studied the way he slumped in the doorway, “You seem quite angry.” She softened her look as she showed him her pad, “I’m just writing reminders to myself so I can keep things straight. Don’t you do that?”

“Nah…”

Missouri put her pen down, “I just want to help.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “everyone just wants ta help and yet they never do!” He turned away from the door and kicked his toe against the battered jamb.

“Well,” Missouri kept her voice soft and calm, “maybe, then, you can show us how to help, hmm? Do you know how to get Dean to talk to me?”

“Uhhhggg!” He delivered a vicious kick to the doorframe and took off down the hall, “I ain’t got nothin’ worth sayin’! Why don’t you ask Trig… he loves to talk!” Feet thundered down the stairs to the basement.

Missouri stood from the chair slowly and followed. The front door opening stopped her in her tracks.

“Where ya headed,” Bobby greeted and took over his own momentum from Cas.

“Basement,” Missouri answered with a rare economy of words, “you should probably come, too.” She looked at the angel, “Both of you.”

As they headed down they heard the remnants of a heated confrontation that they weren’t expecting. Missouri signaled Bobby and Cas to stay behind as she entered the panic room. 

“Fine,” he let out a small sigh, “I’ll tell her!” His agitation broke through the rhythmic spinning of the roof fan. 

“Tell me what?” Missouri kept her distance from where he was sitting on the army cot that was against the furthest wall. _God, does he look worn out. She mentally ‘tsk’d’ as she observed Dean from across the room. Gotta keep him talking._

He slid off the bed and shifted from foot to foot as he looked up through his lashes. He glanced behind him and then looked back at Missouri shoving his hands in his back pockets, “You need to leave the kid alone. You’re scaring him. Okay,” he asked shyly. “He doesn’t know anything anyway. And he doesn’t talk unless he has to.”

Missouri nodded slowly, “Who’s your friend,” she looked past him to the cot, “can I meet him.”

He shook his head, “You’re making him mad. He don’t like it when anyone picks on the kid, you know? Or Sammy, he doesn’t like that either and he’s mad ‘cause he can’t find Sammy either.”

Missouri nodded again. She looked around the sparse room. Plenty of books on the shelves not a lot of places to sit. She spied a chair to her left, “Can I sit down?”

“Oh! Yes, ma’am! Sure!” He rushed over to get the chair and move it towards her, “here.”

Missouri smiled and sat down slowly, “So…”she looked at him quizzically waiting for him to answer. He’s not the angry one, Missouri thought as she observed him. _He’s the typical boy John Winchester would have demanded. The good little soldier. So, where did the other come from?_

“And you are…”

“Trig.”

“Trig,” she grinned, “what can you tell me about… uhm… your friend? I don’t want to make him mad anymore. I just want to help.”

Trig nodded, “Yeah,” he said softly, “I don’t know.” He looked behind him again.

“Oh, for crissakes!” Arms folded around his stomach, “How about tellin’ her that it don’t matter what happened to his hands! He lost Sam!” 

Missouri allowed her surprise to show, “Who lost Sam?”

“Dean! Sheesh,” he huffed, “are you for real?” 

“Hey! Knock it off! I’m not ending up in the closet ‘cause of you!”

“Yeah, but she keeps buggin’ the kid!”

“Trig,” Missouri called out to him. It took several long seconds for him to answer.

“Yes, ma’am,” he looked over at her with his hands stuck in his back pockets.

“Can you tell me,” she continued, “how Dean got hurt? Maybe how he lost Sam?”

He shook his head, “I can’t. And the kid can’t either, so, you just need to leave it. Please, ma’am?”

Missouri nodded, “The kid, you mean, Tommy?”

His eyes widened in surprise, “Tommy was here? I didn’t see him.” He shrugged and shook his head, “Not him, Dee.”

Missouri remained inscrutable and calm, “Dee?”

“Sammy’s brother.”

“Ahh,” Missouri nodded and scribbled on the pad in her lap. “But, you know, sometimes kids see things that we don’t.”

His eyes widened more, and Missouri didn’t miss the nervous shifting of his feet or the way he looked over his shoulder. She wasn’t surprised when he moved over to the cot. 

“I’ll be right back,” she turned to leave, but was surprised by the hand on her shoulder that stopped her.

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	4. Chapter 4

**PART III:**  
**MY SPIRIT IS CRYING FOR LEAVING**   


  
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“HEY!” The dull thud of a boot hitting the base of the door shot through the silence.

“BOBBY! C’MON! OPEN THE DOOR!” 

Bobby’s heart caught in his throat. “He thinks it’s locked! Open the door, dammit!”

Missouri yanked it open and stood calmly in front of green eyes that were blazing in fury. “Dean. Can you calm down for me?”

“Missouri! What the,” his mouth clamped shut for a moment, “Whataya mean leaving me in here like that!” 

“It wasn’t locked, Dean,” Bobby soothed, “I wouldn’t do that. You know that, right?”

Missouri gently waved Bobby off and concentrated on Dean, “How did you hurt your hands?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said brusquely, “they’ll heal, they’ll be fine.” He looked past her to Bobby and Cas. “You got anything on Sam yet?”

Before Bobby could answer green eyes pinned Castiel, “Hey, you got enough of that angel mojo to fix these,” he held up his damaged hands.

“I do,” Castiel answered quietly, “but I think that you should let the, let Missouri help you, Dean.”

“Cas,” he answered, “I don’t need her help. And we’ve got no time for this.” His eyes narrowed as he looked down at his bandaged hands, “let’s just get on with it,” he held out his hands.

Cas hid his surprise at Dean’s request well. He’d not been allowed to heal him before. He had his own suspicions as to why Dean refused his offer of help. He’d learned a lot about his charge, so he wasn’t really that surprised then. “If you’d like that,” Cas answered carefully, “then, yes, I can do that.” 

“NO!” Missouri caught Cas by the wrist. She looked back at her patient, “Not until you, Dean Winchester, can tell me how you hurt your hands.” Cas lowered his arm and took a step back.

Missouri softened her gaze and her tone, “I can see your pain.”

The snort took her up short. “I don’t think so.” 

She gave him a rare smile, “Try me.”

Dean’s brows rose slightly before his eyes narrowed as he studied her before shaking his head and stepping to the side of her and heading for the door again.

“Stop!” She put a hand to the middle of his chest. “How did _you_ get hurt? I’m sure it’s painful. Humor me.”

She could feel his body tense under her hand. She could see him wrestling with his own thoughts or memories and could only imagine where they were leading. 

Dean pulled back, he raised his hands as if to shield himself from something only he could see. _‘Sammy!’ He surged forward at first putting his hands in front of his face and then reached through the fire for Sam. ‘SAMMY!’_

Missouri watched as Dean looked around him… _Dean put another quarter in for the next game … a creepy feeling skittered up the back of his neck._ His eyes, scanned the room, his breathing grew labored. _‘Sammy’… he crashed through the room …_ Dean flinched back and Missouri wondered what he was seeing in his own mind… _the witch… her long spindly fingers going for Sammy…_

He jumped at the sound of the shot… Dean clutched his chest as if holding in his very soul. His eyes frantically swept the room, his breathing became shallow… _‘Take Sammy and run! RUN!... it was so hot… burning hot… he covered Sammy keeping him away from the heat…_

Dean’s breathing suddenly slowed. His posture became more relaxed, but Missouri noticed that it was the kind of relaxed you see in fighters before they strike. _‘So your old man just up and left ya, huh…the cop snorted as he looked at the bread and jar of peanut butter. Dean just wanted to smash his face!_

Dean shook out his hand and looked down at it curling in on itself, he felt the soreness of his knuckles. _‘You shouldn’t piss off the deputy… he leaves with the key…_ Dean grasped at his wrists. He felt bandages, not cuffs. The bruises weren’t there. He looked around the room. 

His eyes locked on Bobby outside the door and Cas. He followed Missouri. _‘You’ll always have a place here, D-Dawg...’ God! Sometimes he missed Sonny! But Sam. Sam._

Missouri gave him a gentle pat on the arm and then slowly strode over to the far wall.

Dean watched as she bent to pick up a stuffed toy. He looked away before she turned. His brows furrowed in confusion as she held it out to him. “Where the hell did this come from?”

Bobby had wheeled to the threshold, “Whataya…”

Missouri’s raised hand cut him off. She looked at Dean softly, “Do you know what that is?”

Dean gingerly cradled the small toy in his more lightly bandaged hand. He gave her a curt nod.

“What is it?”

She saw his Adam’s apple working overtime as he struggled to control emotions that were too close to the surface. Her heart ached as his index finger gently stroked the nearly bald nose of the bear it’s stitching stark against the lack of fur.

He looked longingly at the small toy as a father would his child. Suddenly his features hardened and his hand became more of a grip than a cradle. He stopped caressing the toy as his eyes grew cold and nearly steely as he looked up at her.

“It’s a toy.” His voice was cold. Hard. “Belonged to the kid. I can’t believe he was crying over it!” He held it out to Missouri. “We finished here, now? I gotta try to get Sam back.”

“Dean,” Missouri gently took the bear, “how did you hurt your hands?”

“Missouri,” Dean looked apologetic, “I just don’t have time for this.” He looked around, “I don’t have time any of this!” 

“Any of what,” Missouri asked gently. 

Dean sucked in a deep breath as he fought down the thoughts spinning around in his head, “Missouri, you, I can’t…” his breath started to come more rapidly, “you don’t understand, I can’t do this whatever this is, and it doesn’t matter about my hands. I’ve got to go after Sam. I’ve got to find a way to stop an apocalypse and you think I have time for petty crap like this? This, this is junk, Missouri, from a life on the road, from fighting the big fugly, from losing Sam, getting Jo and Ellen ki…killed. I let her down, Missouri, I promised Ellen and I thought I’d done it, I thought I’d shot Lucifer, but it didn’t work!” He tried to catch his breath, “It didn’t work! And Sam was in the fire… can’t get to Sam…” His breathing grew more rapid, “I can’t, I can’t cat…catch… my…br…”

“DEAN!” Bobby nearly surged out of the chair. Cas’ hands were under Dean’s body before he hit the ground. He looked at Bobby.

“Put him on the cot,” he pushed his own chair back, heading for the stairs. Missouri watched how tenderly the angel put Dean down on the cot against the right wall. 

Cas looked down into Dean’s face for a moment. His breathing was still a bit erratic. He gently touched his forehead and smiled softly as his charge’s breathing evened out and he fell into a sleep pattern. He looked up at Missouri. “He’s sleeping now.”

“What did you do?”

Cas looked back down at Dean, “I eased his breathing so, he could sleep. He needs it.”

Missouri nodded and let out a long sigh. “I need a break.” 

Exiting the panic room for the third time Missouri heads for the stairs, “And I need to make a couple calls.” Her feet were heavy on the stairs. Dust slid off the worn steps as she trod to the top.

Cas, without prompting, lifted Bobby from the chair and quickly brought him up to the main floor of the house. With a click of his fingers Bobby’s wheelchair appeared at the top of the stairs after making Bobby comfortable he stepped back.

“Shall I return to the basement and keep watch?”

“No,” Bobby wheeled toward the kitchen, “nothing for you to do down there. You wanna drink? Something to eat?”

“I don’t get hungry, but I would not mind joining you at your table.”

Bobby grimaced and gave him a nod. “I know you don’t need to eat, but I’m not talking about need here. Just,” he started to wheel again, “c’mon.”

Missouri was already seated with a cup of tepid coffee in front of her. She rubbed a tired hand against temples that were strained with what she’s experienced since getting Bobby’s call. Glancing at the clock over the door she could barely believe that only six hours ago, all was right in the world of Dean and Sam Winchester.

She let out a nearly silent snort as she thought about all that was wrong with that thought.

She sucked in a deep breath and took a small sip of the growing-cold coffee. “Bobby.” Her voice was quiet and yet it reverberated like a thunder crack through the small kitchen.

“Yeah.”

“This is bad.” She sat back. “There are, from what I could tell right now, three or four personalities. Could be more, ” she carefully twirled the mug on the scarred table mirroring her own thoughts that were circling looking for a logical place to land. “It looks like classic DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

“Split personality?”

“Mm,” she answered. 

“So,” Bobby snatched his ever-present baseball cap from his head and smoothed over almost non-existent hair before replacing the cap with an angry pull, “you’re telling me that Dean has three other people in his head.”

“More or less.” She sat back against the hard chair, “You remember that hunter doctor, Aaron Troncelle?”

Bobby nodded, “Yeah. Runs a psych place over in Oklahoma.” He thought for a moment, “Ketchum.” His eyes locked on hers, “You know him?”

“Of him,” Missouri nodded, “he works with hunters. Knows them. And he’s probably much better equipped to deal with this.”

“What is this,” Castiel interrupted. “I don’t understand. You said there are four personalities?” His brow crinkled trying to understand, “What does that mean exactly. Is four bad?”

Missouri looked at him with some surprise. “I take it you’ve not been around humans very long.”

“Only Dean,” Cas answered. “And what I know of my vessel. James Novak.”

“Only Dean? Why only Dean,” Missouri asked, “is that usual?”

“No, it’s not,” Cas answered. “Dean is quite special.”

“Is this important,” Bobby interrupted their impromptu tête-à-tête.

“Maybe,” Missouri mused and kept her eyes locked on the angel’s. “So, why is Dean special?”

Castiel straightened up as he answered, “He is the Righteous Man. He is Michael’s vessel. My Father commanded me to raise him from Perdition. Heaven has a plan for him. But we have rebelled.”

“Both of you?”

Cas nodded, “Both of us. I have chosen to help Dean and Dean has refused to serve Michael.”

“Ooohkay,” Missouri rubbed at her temple, “not too much pressure for any human.”

“My Father does not give more than one can handle,” Cas intoned as he looked at the distraught woman before him. He looked down at the floor as if seeing right through to the basement and to Dean. He couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Father did expect more than the human could stand.

“And Sam,” she asked, “where is he in all of this? What of the Righteous Man’s brother?”

“He is the vessel of Lucifer.”

Missouri’s gaze snapped to Bobby, “You need to explain this to me. I thought you told me yesterday, when you told me what happened in Carthage that the boys went after Lucifer.”

“Right.”

She turned to Cas, “And you’re telling me that Dean is destined to be Michael’s vessel, but he refuses, do I have that right?”

Cas nodded, “You do.”

Missouri rubbed at her temples trying to grasp the magnitude of what she was being told and what was ahead of Dean. “But,” she turned back to Bobby, “you said it was entirely possible that Michael, Archangel of Death Michael, may have taken Sam to keep him from Lucifer?”

Cas turned to Bobby, “You did?”

Bobby adjusted his cap as he looked up at the angel, “You don’t think it’s possible?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And we’re standing here wondering why Dean is having a breakdown?” The snort she let out was nothing resembling anything ladylike and everything indicating complete disgust. “These boys should have just led normal everyday lives, but, no, not the Winchesters! Not John Winchester’s boys.” She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly as if trying to rid herself of so much toxic information.

Cas was still thinking over Bobby’s supposition about Sam. “You might be right. Sam is alive, of this I am sure. Lucifer needs him to be his vessel.” He frowned slightly in thought, “And Michael taking him, oddly makes sense.”

He looked from Missouri to Bobby, “If you’ve no need of me here, then I will go and find out what I can. I am sure it will relieve Dean of his burden of losing Sam.”

“That would be good, yes.” Missouri agreed.

Bobby grabbed the angel by the wrist stopping him. Cas looked at him carefully. “You keep me posted, yeah?”

“Of course, Bobby,” Cas reassured him and with a flutter of unseen wings he was gone.

Missouri and Bobby exchanged glances that said more than either wanted to verbalize at the moment. In perfect sync they each let out a sigh and started to speak.

“You first,” Bobby relented.

“I’m going to give Troncelle a call,” she moved toward the kitchen, and Bobby followed in her wake, “but there’s something else we need to decide.”

“What’s that,” Bobby asked wheeling up to the table.

“How to tell Dean what’s going on.” Missouri sat in the same chair she’d been using since she arrived, “He doesn’t seem to have any idea that there are other personalities within him.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Bobby wheeled around to see Dean standing in the doorway. Dean’s eyes locked on his, “Bobby? What’s Missouri talking about ‘other personalities’ and what the… why was I in the panic room?”

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	5. Chapter 5

  
**PART IV:**  
**AND A NEW DAY WILL DAWN FOR THOSE WHO STAND LONG**   


  
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**TWENTY-TWO DAYS LATER**  


The drive out to Bobby’s place was familiar territory for her now. She’d rented a small house one town over. Neither she nor Bobby wanted Dean institutionalized. Dr. Troncelle had taken a leave and was able to spend almost three weeks with them.

And today was the day. 

It was the day that Dean would meet the people who’d kept him together for all these years. Normally, treatment for such a severe psychological break would take months, years. But, they pushed it with Dean. He demanded it and agreed to it even if he didn’t fully understand, at the time, what that would mean. For him, from his vantage point, there was no choice. He needed to look for Sam. They’d come to understand that his protection of his younger brother was, for him, his raison d’être. That need was also his undoing.

Her heart truly broke for him in so many ways. She’d had her nights when she railed at the memory of John Winchester and wanted to condemn him to the very depths of hell. Finding out that he had, indeed, spent a century there did nothing to assuage her anger and the damage he’d wrought on his oldest son.

Mostly, she worried for Dean. He was a strong boy, strong man. Meeting these Others that he’d created could make him see himself as weak and that was not the case at all. But, the boy, he’d always be a boy to her, was always so hard on himself.

The crunch of gravel under her tires took her out of her thoughts. Pulling through the newly cleaned up salvage yard her eyes lit on the gleaming ’67 Chevy Impala that was one of the anchors of Dean’s life. It was as strong an anchor as a home would have been, had he and Sam had one.

The beige metallic rental was completely out of place in the dusty yard. She knew immediately that Troncelle had arrived. She let out a small sigh of relief that she wouldn’t be on her own with introducing Dean to his other personalities.

“One small step,” she muttered as she turned off the ignition and slipped out of the car. She started as Castiel appeared in front of her, “Can I help you with anything?”

“No,” she patted his arm through his ubiquitous raincoat, “I’m fine.” With a quick step she headed toward the house. “How’s our boy?”

“Dean is quite well.” Cas pulled the door open for her. “Bobby is less so. He has been quite agitated of late.”

“Oh?”

Cas gazed at her closely, “He is very worried about Dean. He is also worried about Sam.” He titled his head in thought, “He’s afraid for Dean. I don’t understand this.”

“Yes, dear,” she gave his arm a quick pat, “I know. It’s a bit complicated for you, isn’t it?”

“I believe it is, yes,” Cas answered. “Dean is a very good man. These others that are part of him are good as well, are they not?”

“Oh, yes,” Missouri agreed, “they are. It’s just not healthy for …"

“Hey, Missouri,” Dean called out from behind her.

She turned and grinned at him. He was a bit thinner than she’d like. But he looked like he’d been getting some sleep.

“Troncelle’s in the kitchen with Bobby.”

“How are you, Dean?” She stepped toward him, “You’re lookin’ mighty fine these days.”

His brows rose, “Must be those wonder pills Troncelle gave me to get me to sleep.”

“Sleep is essential, Dean,” Cas imparted. “It is necessary for your ves… for your body to have eight full hours of rest each night.”

Dean chuckled, “And you know this, how?”

“It’s very interesting what one can learn on the internet about the frailty of the human body.” Cas looked at him questioningly, “It’s perplexing that you do not know how to care for yours.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean shook his head with a small smile, “gimme a good burger, a decent scotch and I’m good, man.”

“Your eating habits are atrocious,” Troncelle said coming from the kitchen and overhearing Dean’s last statement, “we’ll work on those another time.”

Cas and Missouri grinned at Dean’s snort. “Not likely, Doc. My eating habits are the one thing I can truly call my own. Those and Baby. So,” he cheekily winked at him, “not givin’ em up. Maybe when I’m an old man and can’t chew anymore, but never Baby.”

Missouri chuckled, “You have an unnatural affection for that piece of machinery.” 

Dean frowned and shook his head, “She’s my home.”

“True,” Missouri capitulated. A part of her was sad for him that a vehicle was what Dean equated to as ‘home’. But another part was happy that he had something he could call home. She took him by the arm, “How about we get something truly unhealthy to eat and then get started, hmm?”

“Would it not be more advisable to partake of food that would provide vitamin rich sustenance for Dean?” Cas’ query was met with mild amusement. His brow furrowed in thought, “Would not good nutrients aid Dean in his coming endeavor?”

A barely suppressed chuckle escaped Dean, “You make it sound like I’m going to climb Everest or something.”

Cas considered and tilted his head in thought. “No,” he looked with concern at Dean, “I believe this is a more arduous journey. As promised, I will aid you in any way that I can.”

≡  


**TWENTY-FOUR DAYS EARLIER**

“Bobby?”

Dean’s voice held unvoiced fear. Fear was a near and dear acquaintance of Dean’s, but he hardly ever let it show. Bobby knew he was amongst the very privileged tiny minority of people who were allowed to see him in any way vulnerable. 

“You want to tell me what you mean by ‘other personalities’?” He pushed his sleeves up as he waited switching his gaze back and forth between them.

Bobby rolled back to give him more space to come into the small kitchen, “Maybe you want to sit down for this.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the man who was in every way a surrogate father. His brows rose in question, “Oookay.” He pulled the chair out from the table and sat.

“I’m sitting.”

Missouri shot him a quick smile, “You don’t remember going to the panic room?”

Dean frowned, “No.”

Missouri nodded, “Does that happen a lot? Not remembering how you got somewhere, or how?”

“No,” he blinked and looked over at Bobby, “I can’t do that. You know? Could get someone kil…” he stopped. “Can’t do that. It’s dangerous.”

“I understand,” Missouri agreed keeping her voice even and non-threatening. She could see the sudden tenseness in Dean’s shoulders, in the grip on his wrist he was trying to hide. “You’ve had a lot to deal with in your life. It can’t have been easy.”

“It’s the family business, Missouri,” Dean’s lips curled in a small smile, “besides, it’s what we do.”

Missouri nodded, “You’ve developed a very special way to work through some of the things that have been particularly difficult for you.”

He looked over at Bobby, “I’m not getting where you’re going, Missouri.”

“What I’m tryi…”

“Dean,” Bobby interrupted her, “you don’t like peanut butter.”

“God, Bobby,” Dean wrinkled his nose, “I hate the stuff.” 

Missouri hid her surprise at Dean’s reaction to the peanut butter. She looked over at Bobby only to see a knowing smile quirking his lips. “But sometimes, Dean, you do like it, on apples, on crackers.”

Dean grimaces just thinking about it.

“And,” Bobby continued, “you know that sometimes you don’t remember small things. Not on a hunt, but other things, like around here. But there’s another version of you that does.” He glanced over to Missouri, she nodded for him to go on. He honed back onto Dean, “Sometimes when you’re really upset, you get angry, mouthy…”

“Mouthy?” Dean shook his head in disbelief, “No way, Dad would’ve let me have it…”

“Exactly,” Bobby slapped his hand on the table, “that Dean, the mouthy one… he never comes, came out to John.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. He forced his hands into his lap and squeezed his hands into fists swallowing the wince of pain that shot up to his wrist.

Bobby leaned onto the table, “It is you, just not this you. You’ve created other versions of yourself. They help you out…”

“You mean I’m,” he looked away from Bobby to Missouri and back again, “What the hell, Bobby? I pretend I’m someone else?”

“Not at all,” Missouri answered. “Every version that your mind has created is you, just a different part of you. Does the name Trig mean anything to you?”

Dean frowned and shook his head. His gaze locked on Bobby. “I’m crazy?”

“You’re smarter than that, ya idjit!” He pushed his chair closer to the table. “And, stop picking at those bandages.” He looked at the strong but vulnerable man before him, “I don’t know a lot. We’re going to call the right kind of doc that can help you. But, from what I’ve read, researched, this kind of thing happens because of trauma. Physical or emotional. Psychological trauma.”

“Right, so, I’m nuts, now,” Dean snorted as he stood up, “this is so lame!” He glared at Missouri, “And, I really do not have time for this!”

“Sit down,” Bobby’s voice was soft but there was no mistaking the command in it. He held Dean’s nervous scowl. “Sit. You do have time for this. You not having time for you, or taking care of you is exactly how this happened, or one of the ways at any rate. It’s just not that simple.”

“You are not crazy,” Missouri said quietly. “You created these other, let’s call them, ‘Deans’ to protect yourself.” She smiled softly at his disquiet. “You’re a protector. This is how you protected yourself.”

Dean looked carefully at Bobby. He retook his seat. “So what do I do now? You gonna tell me about these other ‘Deans’? God,” He scoffed, “I can’t believe this!”

Missouri glanced at Bobby and then swung her gaze back to Dean. “I’d like to contact another doctor. I know him, Aaron Troncelle. He’s much more knowledgeable than I am about this disorder. And he knows Hunters.”

“This can’t get out in the community,” Dean protested and she could hear the fear mixed with shame lacing each word.

“He’s a doctor, Dean.” Missouri explained quickly, “And your privacy is perfectly safe. I can ask if he can come here. Would you talk to him?”

Dean eyeballed Bobby and got a confident nod from him. “This week,” he swallowed deeply, “I keep losing time.” 

“You’ve been very anxious and fretful since,” Missouri studied him for a moment, “since coming back from Carthage.”

Dean’s eyes widened at her observation. “You’ve been here all week and I didn’t know?”

“No,” she grinned, “I’ve been here since yesterday. Bobby called me. Told me a bit of what was happening to you.”

Dean eyes flashed toward Bobby, “You’ve known… of course you did, since I know now that there’s a Dean that liked peanut butter!” He scraped absently at the already scared table, “How long?”

Bobby nodded, “We’ll talk about it. It’s just never been this bad. Talk to the doc, Dean. Please.”

Dean held Bobby’s soft gaze. He, finally, nodded, “I’ll talk to him.”

“Dean,” Missouri broke the charged silence that filled the battered kitchen, “how did you hurt your hands?”

He looked down at his wrapped hands. Missouri watched his shoulders tense. He gently worried his bottom lip, his eyes crinkled as if seeing the event. “I tried to get to Sammy. He was locked in fire. A ring of fire. Couldn’t,” his words caught in his mouth. He swallowed past the bile that rose in his throat. He looked over at Bobby and his pain filled eyes sucked the air out of the room, “I couldn’t get to him. Michael took him, I think,” he voice was nearly a whisper. “Jo and Ellen died for nothing.”

“Oh, God.” 

He pushed his chair back. “Can I go, now?”

Bobby nodded, “Yeah.” 

They listened to Dean’s retreating footsteps. They heard the quiet snick of the front door close.

“Is that wise?”

“He needs time, Missouri,” Bobby answered quietly, “he won’t do anything stupid if that’s your worry. He never has.”

Her face asked the question she didn’t put into words.

“Sam needs him and he needs to make sure Sam’s all right,” Bobby explained. “It’s really that simple for him.”

  
.  
|≡|≡|≡|≡|  
.  


It was a sleepless night for Dean. It was for Bobby. Both men had a lot on their minds. Too much.

Bobby was already sitting up in bed when he heard Dean come in. He wasn’t sneaking, not like when he was younger and stayed with him sometimes. When he let himself be a little rebellious and go out and be a normal kid.

Normal and kid just never went together the way they should have for Dean Winchester and no one knew that better than he did. He silently cursed John for the damage he helped heap on his oldest son. Sometimes he hated that he didn’t fight harder for John to just give up the hunt and let his boys have that normal life that should have been theirs no questions asked.

But he didn’t.

And, now, both Winchester boys were paying the price of John’s obsession. And Dean was in too many ways paying the higher one. Sam had been protected. And mostly by Dean. At his own expense. The expense of everything. His childhood. His hunger. His schooling. He was in every way the soldier that John molded. 

He heard Dean stop outside his door.

He wanted to call out to him, but he wanted talking to be Dean’s choice. The kid had had so few choices in his life. Or choice he thought he could make for himself, that he deserved to make.

He watched the door expectantly. He watched and willed Dean to knock. 

_C’mon, Dean. Just knock. One small tap._

And then he heard it. The small hesitant rat-tat-tat on the sturdy door.

“Yeah! Dean? Missouri?”

The door swung open slightly on well-oiled hinges. Dean poked his head in, “Hey. You’re up.”

Bobby put the book he’d been pretending to read off to the side, “Looks like.”

Dean eased himself through the door. He shifted for a moment and then stood still and tall as he usually did, “You up to talkin’?”

Bobby gave a quick nod, “You bet.” He nodded toward the small wooden chair in the corner by the window, “Pull up a chair unless you want to go to the kitchen.” Dean started toward the chair.

“Wait! Bobby threw off the blanket and eased himself from the bed in pajamas that barely took Dean by surprise. They were a matched set of navy pinstriped flannels.

“Nice duds for sleeping,” Dean commented wryly.

“Do not mock,” Bobby groused, “these are new. And I like’em!” He slid neatly into his chair, “Now, you must be starved. Let’s get you fixed up and we’ll talk.” He wheeled past Dean and headed for the kitchen.

“Bobby,” Dean followed him, “I’m fine. I’ll make a sandwich or something.”

“Pfft,” Bobby blew him off as he started rooting around the fridge. “I’m a little hunger-bit myself.” 

In moments the two were working around and in tandem with each other to put together two monster sandwiches along with Bobby’s signature potato salad that usually had center stage, center shelf, in the fridge.

The caps being popped off of two frosty beers filled the kitchen with the promise of an understanding that was about to be tested.

Dean leaned back in his seat as he took a long pull on his beer. He couldn’t help studying the man he’d come to think of as a second father. He couldn’t help wondering what Bobby knew and what he was going to reveal. 

Bobby saw the kid studying him. He held back a sigh of frustration. He could probably pinpoint exactly what Dean was thinking and when. He inwardly cringed as Dean’s eyes dropped to his plate. And not because he was getting ready to eat. Dean’s rapacious appetite always disappeared when he was stressed and anxious. 

He took a long pull from his bottle and set it gingerly on the table. It floated for a mere second on the condensation at the base that had dripped onto the surface.

“You’re not weak.”

Dean’s head popped up. “H-how,” he smirked and gave a minute shake of his head, “what should I think? That you know me enough to know that’s what I was thinking?”

“Eat,” he pointed to Dean’s plate with his beer, “and what you should think is that I pay attention. I’m not going to get all chick flick on you, but, you and Sam, you’re family. You pay attention to those you care about.”

“I guess.” Dean put his bottle down carefully and reached for one half of his sandwich.

“You guess?” Bobby snatched a bite of his sandwich, “Don’t give me that bull, son. If anyone knows what they do for family that would be you!” He looked over at Dean, “Eat!”

Dean silently complied and saluted Bobby with his beer.

Bobby waited until Dean had taken several bites of the sandwich before continuing. “You fall asleep in the car?”

“On her.” Dean took a gulp of his beer finishing it off and stood to get a second from the fridge. He retook his seat popping open two fresh bottles. “Okay. You wantta tell me about these other Deans? “’Cause, I gotta tell you, man, it’s,” he scoffed softly, “it’s, I don’t know, hard to wrap my head around, you know?”

Bobby put his sandwich down, “I can only imagine.” He finished taking his bite and chased it with a swig from his bottle, “When I first realized what might be happening, I was, it was, odd, I guess is the right word. Not that you were odd, that I was seeing it.”

“Bobby,” Dean pushed his half-eaten sandwich away, “I can’t, I can’t be mentally ill. I can’t be put away, you know?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Bobby retorted trying not to feel the sting of the fear he heard in Dean’s voice. This wasn’t about him, it was about Dean. Something John gave short shrift to on a good day.

Dean folded his arm over the edge of the table and spun his bottle in the small puddle of water that pooled around it. “Bobby.” He looked up at his mentor, his surrogate father, “I know this is not good. I get that, but I gotta go after Sam!” He let out a long breath of frustration. “I can’t spend months and months, weeks, whatever, figuring out who’s playing in my head!”

“No one’s playing, Dean.” He swung around to look behind him straight into the warm brown eyes of Missouri.

“Hey!” He gave her a strained grin. “We wake you?”

Missouri let out a small whimpering huff, “Who’s sleeping.” She looked at the table, “Maybe it was the scent of fresh roast beef at two in the morning that pried me from my warm, fluffy bed.

Dean smiled and pushed his plate over to the empty chair where she’d sat before, “Be my guest.”

“Thanks,” she took her now usual seat, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but,” she looked around, “this house. Voices carry.” She glanced from Bobby to Dean, “You’re right, Dean, normally this condition takes months of therapeutic intervention,” she held up her hand to stop his interruption, “and I get that your primary need is not you but protecting Sam, but you need to deal with what’s going on with you.”

Dean gently gnawed at his lower lip. He twirled his still full beer bottle between his two bandaged hands. Finally, he looked up at Missouri, “If Bobby’s seen this happen before, why is it so important that I do something now.” He focused on Bobby, “How long have you known about this?”

Bobby sucked in a deep breath, “I started to suspect something when you were really young, but I didn’t think much of it then. I just figured you had an imaginary friend. Lots of kids do.”

“I have, had,” Dean narrowed his eyes, “okay, an imaginary friend, but not an imaginary friend?”

Bobby snorted and rubbed at his stubbled cheek, “Tommy.”

Dean sat up straight, “Tommy Malloy?”

Missouri didn’t hide her surprise, “You know someone named Tommy?” 

“He was my,” Dean chuckled and nodded, “my best friend in school, I guess pre-school, and we played t-ball together.”

Bobby looked over at Missouri and then back at Dean, “Tommy likes peanut butter. He talks for you, I think he talks for the younger you. He calls you Dee.”

Dean’s eyes glistened with tears he would never allow to fall. They were the tears of remembrance, of lost youth, of missing his friend. “Tommy used to call me that. All the kids did.”

“Sammy called you that, too,” Bobby reminded.

“I know.” Dean struggled to not lose himself to his own emotions. He sucked in a deep breath and took another pull on his growing-warm beer, “Okay, so Tommy and Dee.” He looked at Bobby, “Who else?”

Dean watched Missouri and Bobby exchange speaking glances. “Tell me, Bobby.” Dean waved his hand in front of Bobby, “I don’t want to do this with someone I don’t know. I trust you.” He peered over at Missouri, “I know you, too, but, not like I know Bobby. And I don’t want to do this with some doctor I don’t know at all.” He pursed his lips in thought, “And I want to know why this is suddenly so urgent.”

“Because,” Bobby interrupted, “you shifted from personality to personality several times in just a couple days! Scared the hell out of me, boy and that’s saying something!”

“Okay,” Dean nodded, “tell me. Everything. And I want to know how I ended up in the panic room and why you locked me in there ‘cause I never thought you’d do that, you know?” 

“I didn’t,” Bobby protested, “I’d never do that. You need to tell me you understand that.”

“I get it,” Dean answered, “but I _was_ locked in there.”

“No, you weren’t,” Bobby reassured him, “it was never locked. You thought it was, but it wasn’t. And I didn’t put you in there, neither did Missouri. You,” he watched Dean carefully to gauge his reaction, “you went there.”

“I went there?” Dean looked confused and irritated. His entire face wrinkled in disbelief, “I mean, not that I have anything against the room,” he made a one-shoulder shrug, “it’s just not, you know, like my first choice of places to go in this house.”

“I think,” Missouri joined their conversation, “that there’s a part of you that feels safe in that room. It’s a room built _for_ safety.

Dean frowned in thought, “Okay, that makes sense in a weird, I don’t really want to know more sense. But,” he looked from Missouri to Bobby, “I guess I’m going to have to know more. So,” he settled back in his chair, “hit me.”

Between Missouri and Bobby they told Dean about the ‘others’ that Bobby’d known about and that Missouri had met. He learned that along with Tommy and Dee there was also Trig and D-dawg. Plus, Bobby thought he’d met an adult Dean that hadn’t identified with a specific name, but he, that ‘other’ didn’t seem to know some of the same things about Dean that he should.

They talked for another hour before Bobby noticed how drained Dean seemed. After urging him to get in bed, Dean finally relented. Bobby and Missouri were hopeful that the beer Dean had consumed would, if nothing else, help him get some sleep.

≡  


**THREE DAYS LATER**

Dean stood on Bobby’s scruffy but sturdy porch and looked out over the wreckage of the salvage yard. One of his favorite things to do was imagine all the machinery restored to its pristine state. The way it was when it was new and untouched by the roads of life, the twists and turns that battered them to their current state. He knew that Baby could be in that heap if it wasn’t for Bobby. If Bobby hadn’t taught him how to repair her and keep her running he’d have no home at all that he could call his.

If there’d been anyone out there with him they would have seen his mouth taking on all manner of grimaces and smirks, twisting with the thoughts that plagued him now. These weren’t thoughts of the Heaven-Hell Apocalypse, or that he and Sam were destined to be the meat-suits of two Archangel brothers that hated each other. They weren’t about fighting the next demon.

This time his thoughts centered on him. It was difficult, still, to imagine that he’d been so weak, so soft that he’d broken his own mind.

He grumbled with disgust at himself. “How did this friggin’ happen?”

The gentle swish of wings interrupted him. He looked to his right and wasn’t in the least surprised to see Cas looking at him with his unwavering and questioning gaze. He wasn’t surprised because he knew the sound of angel wings now. Angels that he never believed in until Cas took him out of Hell.

“I thought you were looking for Sam,” Dean asked quietly. He kept any hint of dismay from coming out.

“I believe Sam is quite safe.” Cas moved closer to him, “I’m worried for you.” He studied Dean’s face, the line of his body. “You are very tense. I can see it in the tiny muscles in your jaw, the tendons in your neck.” He looked down at Dean’s hands. “I see your hands are mending. They are not so heavily bandaged.” Dean’s eyes followed Cas’. “You could have let me heal them.”

“Yeah.” Dean looked away from him. “Didn’t want you to.”

“So, you could punish yourself.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

“Burned hands as punishment for getting Jo and Ellen killed, letting Sam get taken?” Dean snorted, “Small price.”

They turned hearing the squeak of the screen door. 

“Oh! Angel,” Missouri grinned seeing the slightly disheveled man standing with Dean. “How are you?” She tilted her head in thought, “Is that a question that one should ask an Angel?”

Cas gave her a small smile, “It is quite agreeable to be addressed with the same pleasantries that humans use with each other.” He thought for a moment, “I am quite well, thank you. And how are you?”

“I am well,” she chuckled, “and I’m here to collect my patient.” She looked softly at Dean, “Are you ready?”

Dean’s brows shot up, “As ever.” He looked back at Cas from the door, “Keep tabs on Sam for me?”

“Of course.” He started to leave and stopped, “Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas.”

“You’re a good man and you are not weak. You need to know that. And you are the Righteous Man, that has to count, do you not agree?”

Dean sucked in a deep breath, and ticked his head to the side in doubt, “I don’t know, Cas. Maybe.”

“You are one of the strongest humans I’ve ever met,” Cas added as Dean turned in the door, “with one of the brightest souls ever committed to a human. Remember that.”

Dean nodded, “I’ll try.” He turned in the door and turned back, “Than…” the angel was already gone, “...ks, Cas.”

  
.  
|≡|≡|≡|≡|  
.  


Missouri and Dean had settled into a bit of a routine in the last few days. The first thing Dean was adamant on what that he didn’t have months to get a handle on this personality thing, as he still called it. At the same time, he understood that it was important. For him and to Bobby.

She’d observed that one of, if not, the key sticking point for him was shame. He thought himself weak and, so, he was embarrassed and ashamed. Just the little she’d heard on the porch a few minutes ago further confirmed an already solid opinion.

She’d resolved to address that particular issue a bit more today. Plus, she wanted to talk about Dr. Troncelle arriving the day after tomorrow. She watched Dean pace the length of the room a couple times before he finally settled on the sofa in Bobby’s study. The light came through and rested on his shoulders. Missouri could see how restless and nervous he was as his eyes darted around the room before coming to rest on her.

“So,” he clasped his hands together with a forced twinkle to his eye, “what piece of my brain are we gonna open up today?”

Missouri nearly choked trying not to chuckle at his seemingly cavalier acceptance of their, now, daily meetings. She gave him a quick smile and got control of the laugh that was currently and inappropriately sitting at the back of her throat.

“Well,” she started, “I guess today I’d like to talk about a few things. But why don’t we start with the shame you’re feeling. That’s where we ended off yesterday and I think there’s much more to explore.” She shifted to make herself more comfortable on the overstuffed chair. “Sound good?”

Dean shrugged, “Sounds just ducky.” He let out a small groan as he sat back on the sofa anticipating the mind surgery he was about to embark on without anesthetic.

Missouri chuckled lightly, “I can just imagine what you’re thinking and none of it good.” She nodded as if to herself, “And that’s okay. I don’t think I expected you to like, as you said, opening a piece of your brain. What I’d like to work on with you is being comfortable and accepting of yourself.”

Dean nearly reared back in protest, but held himself in check, “I accept myself! What are you talking about Missouri, of course I accept myself!”

Sometimes the best response is no response. As a therapist she'd used it often to get patients to say more. One thing she'd learned is that most people don't like silence. And Dean was definitely one that did not, he would be compelled to fill it.

She waited.

Dean's eyes didn't shift. They stayed locked on her. His brow rose waiting for her to say something.

It wasn't long before he broke, "So, how is it that you think I don't accept myself?”

Missouri frowned slightly, "How about we turn that around and you tell me what you do accept about you. You've admitted that you think you're weak because of what's happened with these other personalities and yet, you protected yourself. So, I want to ask this, if you'd protected Sam, and it cost you a bit of yourself, would that be weak?”

Dean snorted, “Again with you asking all the questions!” He let out a soft groan, “Can’t you just tell me how to fix it, I’ll do that and we can all move on.”

“So, you think you just need a tune up, like you do for Baby? You think of yourself as something that can be fixed, I think of you as someone who needs to be treated.” She studied him with gentle eyes, “That’s the difference, right there. Dean, you are not a machine.”

“Uh, yeah, Missouri, I think I know that,” he scowled, “I think I’ve bled enough to know that, you know? But, no, I don’t think I’m a machine.”

“But you think of yourself as something broken that needs to be fixed?”

“Ya think?” He pushed off the sofa and paced the length of it. She watched the coiled muscles in his back contract and tighten as he wound himself further and further inside.

She wondered, briefly, if he’d still be with her in a few moments. His fists clenched and clenched at his side. Slowly his posture changed. As he turned around he became stiffer as though spoiling for a fight.

Now, she was in session with D-Dawg. This hadn’t happened in the last few days. But, if asked, she wasn’t that surprised. She was, perhaps, surprised that it had not happened sooner.

“Why can’t you just leave us alone,” the tone was angry, belligerent, annoyed. “You just really like pushing people don’t ya!” Missouri startled at the growl that rumbled through the room, it was almost feral. “Why can’t you just leave us alone, or for fu… just tell me how to fix whatever it is you want us to fix and I’ll do it! I know how. I do it all the time. But you gotta tell me what you want me to do!”

Missouri held up a placating hand and kept her voice as calm and soft as a summer breeze, “D-Dawg,” she relaxed her posture. What she wanted to do was gather him in her arms and hug the hurt away. But it was too late for that. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry if you think I’m pushing you. It’s not what I want to do.” She smiled softly, “I think I can help, but you have to let me.”

“Help?” He snorted and huffed with disgust, with exasperation. He stuck his chin out just enough to let him feel tough, “How? How you gonna help Dean?”

He looked narrowly at Missouri. His eyes were coolly assessing, judging. “You know he, Dean, he thinks he's weak, his Dad tells him he’s soft alla the time. He’s not, you know? And this crap really pisses me off.”

Missouri nodded, “I know that, D-Dawg. I'm glad you know it too. Now, I, we, need for Dean to understand that.” She was a little surprised about his shift from himself to Dean. She hadn’t expected that level of awareness. She focused on him, though. It would be counterproductive to allow him to think he was any less important. 

“So,” he held his arms rigidly at his sides, “I guess you want me to let you go back to talking to him, huh?”

“It would be helpful, yes.”

“Well, okay, then. I'm, just, I'm gonna go and, I don’t know. Something. Yeah… going, now…”

Missouri made herself comfortable and after quicky jotting down a few notes, took out her knitting. She kept one eye on it and the other on Dean. He didn’t have command of his ‘others’ yet, so the transition could take either minutes or hours. The fact that he was quiet, meant that D-Dawg had fully retreated, but Dean hadn’t yet surfaced.

As she started her second row of purl stitches, she noticed the change in Dean. His body changed now that D-Dawg retreated. They both had a tenseness to them, but D-Dawg’s was more wiry, whereas Dean’s was more a ready-to-go type. 

She looked up as he cleared his throat. 

He glanced at the clock and unwrapped his arms from around him. He looked down at them confused as to why his arms were like that. He didn’t, hadn’t done that in a long time.

“Uhm,” he released a quiet huff, “what happened? One of those guys come out?”

“Yes.” Missouri stowed her knitting back in its bag, “How do you feel?”

Dean shrugged and looked away, “Fine. A little tired.” He looked back at her, “Kind of like I just had an argument with Sammy or Dad and just want to go nap or something.” 

Missouri grinned, “You’re a hunter that hates confrontation. It’s an interesting dynamic.” She put her knitting bag aside, “Right now you’re probably feeling like that because, for lack of a better way to say this, you’re arguing with yourself.”

“I’m, what, now?”

Missouri chuckled, “Fighting yourself. I got you angry or anxious. You fought back, just not quite as yourself. But,” she clapped her hands to her knees as she stood, “let’s just talk about you. And how to get you feeling good about you. Dr. Troncelle is arriving tomorrow and I know you want to start with him right away.” She stood up, “How about a walk and we talk about you. No pushing. Deal?”

Dean gave her a lopsided grin, “Deal.” He strode toward the hall and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door, “How about a ride in Baby, then a walk.”

“Sounds good.” She grabbed her coat, which Dean held for her. “It’ll do you good to get out of here for a bit.”

He stopped on the porch and studied her for a moment as he pondered the question he wanted to ask. Finally, like ripping off a bandage, he asked. “Who was it? You know, that came out?”

“D-Dawg.” Missouri watched his reactions carefully, “He’s very big on defending you, your right to privacy, your right to get and be angry, things like that.”

“And so I’m fighting him when I’m fighting myself, but he’s myself too. Right?”

Missouri nodded, “Yeah, that’s about right.”

“Okay, so,” Dean opened the door to Baby for her, “I guess I have to work on not fighting myself.”

“That would be a very good place to start. Now,” Missouri goaded, “get this girl fired up!”  
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	6. Chapter 6

**PART V:**  
**REBUILD ALL YOUR RUINS**   


≡

**THE FOLLOWING DAY**

Dean had to admit that he was nervous about meeting this Dr. Troncelle. Aaron Troncelle. It was a strong name, at least. He liked names that were strong, that had some weight. He never really stopped to wonder why, he just did. And Bobby’d checked him out. Pulled up all the articles the guy had written on Dissociative Identity Disorder. He shuddered, the name of this condition that he now had sent chills down his spine.

He’d talked it over with Missouri, he learned about it himself. Still gave him the creepy crawlies. Something he could gank, that would definitely sit much better with him. This thing?

He could feel the coil of cold fear taking root in his stomach. And he knew what it was, that fear. It was the fear of losing. Losing to a fancy illness with a long name. Fear of losing all control over himself. There was nothing that made him shudder more than knowing that someone else was driving his mind, his body.

“Christ! A skinwalker would be better. At least they’re honest about it! Sort of.” He shook his head, “This is great! Now I’m talking to an empty room! Can the funny farm be far behind!”

“What’s a funny farm?”

Dean whipped around and came face-to-face with Cas. He waved him off and went back to pacing the room.

“You will wear out what is left of Bobby’s carpeting at this rate,” Cas deadpanned.

Dean stopped in his tracks. He stuck out his chin and glowered at the angel, “Now you’re making with the funny?”

Cas drew back slightly, “No, I was making an observation.” 

The crunch of gravel drew their attention to the window and the salvage yard beyond it. “I believe your doctor has arrived.”

“Yeah. Great.”

Cas tipped his head as he observed his friend and charge. He didn’t feel it was necessary to point out Dean’s less than enthusiastic response. He was just as aware as Bobby or Missouri that Dean was feeling particularly vulnerable wrestling with this condition that plagued him. What Cas had difficulty with was the way Dean saw himself. He couldn’t help thinking that if Dean could only see what he saw it would change his perspective. And he wished he had some way of showing him, but he didn’t.

So, as ineffective as it was, the talking he does with Missouri and Bobby and now this new doctor would have to do.

“He is here to help you,” Cas reminded him, “if you let him. And you should. You are a good man, Dean. Do not underestimate yourself. Let your enemies do that.”

Dean was a little surprised at Cas’ speech but had no time to reply as Missouri escorted the new guy into the house. Bobby wheeled in from the kitchen where he’d sought refuge in front of the stove and a pot of stew and one of soup. Plus, there was the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and apples in the air which meant there was apple pie for dessert.

“Dean.” Missouri called out to him and he strode forward plastering as real a smile as he could muster. As Missouri introduced him to the doctor, he held his hand out to the, slightly portly man with white hair that reminded him of those Einstein pictures Sammy used to paste onto his notebooks. He wasn’t as tall as he’d imagined. A few inches shorter than him, Bobby’s height.

“It’s good to meet you, Doctor.”

The man smiled and looked vaguely like a gleeful Santa, “Please, Aaron, is fine.” He grasped Dean’s hand firmly, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Dean chortled, “You needed a new nut case, huh?”

Aaron shrugged, “Actually, no. But, I always like the interesting ones.”

“Well, then,” Dean grinned, “I’m happy to oblige.” He turned to Bobby and introduced them and finally introduced the doctor to Cas. He was a little astonished to be meeting an angel and expressed the desire to talk with him separately. Cas could not have been more pleased or more skeptical.

“I’ve got lunch on,” Bobby broke the slightly charged silence that had settled over the room. He looked up at the doc, “I’m sure we could all do with something to eat, and take some time just to get to know each other, yeah?”

“Perfect,” Missouri agreed, “I think I smell your stew cooking?”

“You do,” Bobby spun around to the kitchen and was followed with everyone falling in behind the other. It reminded Dean vaguely of a family of geese he’d seen once in a park in Wyoming. And he had no idea why he’d just thought of that, but it made him laugh to himself at the visual. Sammy would’ve definitely got it.  
Dean lost no time over lunch to question the doc about his plan for treating him. He also lost no time in stating that he didn’t have endless days to spend exploring his head. He, Cas and Bobby figured they’d have little choice and needed to tell the man about the Apocalypse that he and Sam were trying to stave off. 

He treats Hunters and so he knows them. Dean was a more than a little thrilled to find out that he came from a Hunter family. But even he, based on his incredulous expression, wasn’t prepared for the battle that Dean and Sam were involved in fighting and ultimately trying to win. 

As lunch wound down and pie was distributed, Dean finally asked the money question. “So, Doc,” he sliced his fork through the tender pie, “what’s the plan? How are we gonna open up my brain and clean it out or whatever?”

Aaron let out a small chuckle, “Missouri warned me about the way you’ve been referring to your condition. Humor is good, even dark humor, but we’ll talk more about that later.” He took a bite of his pie and watched the absolute pleasure that bloomed across his new patient’s face at his first taste of the pie.

Dean swallowed his bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee, “Well,” he quirked a brow, “you gotta find the funny sometimes, you know?” He concentrated on his pie and tamping down the roiling in his stomach that threatened to ruin his favorite dessert.

“True,” Aaron agreed. “So, knowing how you want to move this along, my plan is to go in swinging, so to speak. Not the way I’d ordinarily do this, but,” he held up his hand to ward off Dean’s coming protest, “I get it desperate times.” He took a sip of his coffee as he watched his patient relax a bit. “I want to spend some time just getting to know you. One on one.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, okay. Guess it would be good to know you some too, before you start rooting around.”

Aaron chuckled again as he conjured a visual of rooting around Dean’s mind as he would his basement looking for some old books or something. He took another bite of pie, “Then I’d like to use hypnosis. It can usually be very effective in reaching your ‘alters’.”

Dean nodded, “Missouri says that you’ll be able to help me control the three of them, wait, no, the four of them, better.”

He didn’t miss the questioning glance that the doctor threw to Missouri. 

“Okay,” he looked from him to her, “what?”

Missouri’s mouth pursed as she glanced over to Bobby. Dean followed her gaze. He turned in his chair to face Bobby, “You gonna tell me what all the eye talk is about?”

Bobby adjusted his cap the way he does when he’s thinking or deciding. His entire face screwed up in a fleeting grimace, “There may be more than the four.”

Dean’s fork hit his plate with a clatter, “Mo… _more_ than four!” He looked at Missouri, “How _many_ more than four?”

Aaron fielded the question before Missouri could answer. “We’re not sure,” his voice was pitched to soothe and calm, “perhaps another adult. The others are children, teens. I only suspect additional alters because of what I know of your history.”

Bobby gave Dean a nod that said it was going to be all right. Dean only hoped he was right since there was precious little that was all right at the moment.

“Then,” Dean stood noisily from his chair, “I think the sooner we get started the better. I’ve still got a brother to find and an apocalypse to ruin.” He stretched his back, “So,” he swept his hand toward the study, “how about it?” He strode out and took a seat on the sofa.

Aaron was a little surprised at Dean’s sudden invitation and seeming willingness to get started. From all that Missouri and he had discussed, Dean was the picture of reluctance.

“You better strike while the iron is hot,” Bobby advised. “One thing I know about Dean, is this, if he’s going to do something he’ll go all the way. He needs to do this for him, but right now, the sooner he gets this done, the sooner he gets to Sam.” Bobby glanced over at Missouri, “Take what you can get. Maybe if he sees that it’s helping him, he’ll get it. Get that he’s worth it.”

≡

**ONE WEEK LATER**   


The first week Dean spent in therapy with Aaron Troncelle was harder work than he thought it would be. He started to appreciate the soft tactics Missouri had used with him the few days prior to the psychiatrist’s arrival. They’d spent the first week just talking. Troncelle kept him talking for a large part of the day. Well, it wasn’t just Troncelle. He really didn’t like the idea of pushing Dean to do more than he should. He kept stating that resolving Dean’s condition, any dissociative disorder should be done carefully and over time.

It took about three days for Dean to fully drive home the idea that he wasn’t going to move slowly on this. If slow was what everyone needed then he’d have to find Sammy first and bring him home. It became a game of chicken. When Dean started to leave it was Bobby that got him to stay by pointing out that the last thing Dean needed was to be going up against Lucifer or Michael or any of the other douchebag angels and having an alter come out.

It was a hard won capitulation and Dean knew that Bobby hated playing the card, but he was willing to do whatever it took to keep Dean safe and by extension Sam. And so here he sat with flames of cold dread licking at his insides. He blew out a breath. He told himself there was nothing that he needed to be afraid of or uncomfortable about. And he knew that, but, it still bothered him, irritated him that he’d made these splinters, these fragments of himself.

Troncelle had spent a lot of time with him helping him understand that these alters, these fragments of himself where a method he’d used for coping with the trauma that life had dealt him. But it rankled that he’d been so vulnerable. He remembered asking the question that, more or less, turned things around for him. 

_“See, Doc, Aaron, this is what I don’t get.” He’d listened about how he’d formed these others to protect himself and to keep himself safe, “It just seem so, and I know that you hate it when I use this word, but,” he shrugged, “there isn’t another that does as well, it seems so weak, like my mind wasn’t strong enough to just deal and move on.” He looked the doctor straight in the eye, “See, I don’t get how you don’t see it. Sammy went through the same traumas, some even worse! Hell, the kid died, was hunted by a demon for most of his life and,” he looked away, “he doesn’t have this kind of problem.”_

_He’d let out a long breath. It’d been a relief to finally say what had been on his mind since first finding out he was mentally ill. “I just don’t get it. I’ve always thought of myself as strong, you know? And, now…” he sighed and Aaron heard, felt, all the man’s self-recrimination that Missouri had warned about._

_Aaron kept Dean waiting for a few seconds, probably to be sure that he’d finished. It was rare, still, to get him talking. So, when it happened the doc went with it, let him get it out, finish whatever rant he’d started on or needed to, decided to share._

_“You’re not going to believe me,” Aaron leaned forward to get closer to Dean than the seating arrangement would allow, “I hope someday you will believe me. The difference between Sam and you. The difference in Sam being, in your opinion, stronger than you, is really very simple.”_

_Dean narrowed his gaze as he held the doctor’s. “Okay. Tell me.”_

_When Doc told him that the big difference was that Sam had him. He’d snorted in disbelief. It was an unbelievable statement._

_“It’s true,” the doc insisted. “You protected him from the worst of your father, from hunger, from thirst, from some basic wants. You sacrificed for him to the point of trading your life for his.” He looked narrowly at Dean, “Do you think that means nothing? Do you think that had no impact on keeping your brother safe and sound. Your diligence in keeping him in school had no impact on the full ride he got to Stanford. You’re proud of him for that. Be proud of yourself and recognize how much it hurt you when he left you behind.”_

_“Oh, c’mon, Doc!” Dean waved him off, “What was he supposed to do, drag me along as his personal watch dog?”_

_“Don’t do that,” Aaron commanded. “You need to stop seeing yourself as less. You’re not. I think Sam would tell you that.”_

It was only yesterday. After five days of relentless talking, he’d finally started to think a little differently. Just a little. For now. Dean sucked in a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah.” He nodded as he remembered. “Sam had me,” he whispered it to himself as he had since yesterday afternoon.

Dean turned toward the sound of the doctor’s lively but unhurried step. Aaron paused in the opening of the French doors that led to the study. He’d been standing a distance away for a few moments. Either Dean hadn’t noticed him, which was doubtful, or he just chose not to acknowledge him until now. If he’d hazard a guess as to what was on the younger man’s mind he’d guess the session they had yesterday afternoon. They’d skipped meeting last night.

He remembered Dean’s reaction to his declaration that the difference between Sam’s supposedly healthy mind and Dean’s compromised one. It was not surprising because he expected the self-recrimination, but, then it was surprising that he could still hold himself so cheaply. But he saw a moment where Dean may just have gotten it. He remembered it so clearly, he’d probably never forget it.

_You sacrificed for him to the point of trading your life for his.” Dean’s disbelief was written all over his face, “Do you think that means nothing? That had no impact on keeping your brother safe and sound. Your diligence in keeping him in school had no impact on the full ride he got to Stanford. You’re proud of him for that because you played no small part. Be proud of yourself and recognize how much it hurt you when he left you behind.”_

_He saw Dean’s chest hitch, his eyes glisten with emotions Dean simply did not let out. ‘Maybe he’s starting to get it. Maybe.’ Dean had gently worried his bottom lip as absorbed what Aaron just told him. Aaron knew that he’d heard this before. He’d heard it from Bobby and, more recently, from Missouri. Maybe hearing it from him would matter more. Not that it should, but he’d take what he could get._

“Hey, doc!” Dean stood as Aaron walked into Bobby’s jack-of-all-trades study, “we ready to do this?”

Aaron smiled at Dean’s brashness. “I am. Are you?”

“As ever,” he held out his arms and grinned. “Where do you want me?”

“Just,” he nodded toward the sofa, “wherever you’re most comfortable.” Dean resumed his seat on the sofa. “Good.” Aaron moved the smaller kitchen chair he’d brought in earlier closer to the sofa, “I promise this won’t hurt at all. It will help access your subconscious.”

Dean nodded. “You want me to lay down?”

Aaron frowned, “Only if you want to.”

“I’ll sit then. Dean settled back against the back of the sofa, “Ready.”

“All you need to do is listen to the sound of my voice.”

“I’m not gonna cluck like a chicken or bark like a dog, right?”

Aaron didn’t even try to suppress the chuckle that bubbled out, and he wasn’t offended. He already knew this was the way Dean dealt with his own nervousness. “No,” the doc shook his head, “maybe scream like a bunny.”

“Pffft!” Dean scoffed, “Bunnies don’t scream, they chatter and make little squeaking noise. At least let me do something manly, okay?”

The doc nodded and controlled the grin that desperately wanted to stretch his mouth, “Manly, it is. Now, who would you like me to talk to first?”

Dean had thought about this for a while, “The angry one. I think I know who he is or how he happened, but,” he shrugged, “anyway, let’s try him.”

“Good,” Aaron leaned back in his chair, “listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to take in a deep breath.”

Dean did as directed.

“Now let it out slowly… Good. Keep listening to my voice. And take another deep breath… let it out… and again…”

Dean could already feel himself starting to relax. He felt warmer. He felt as if he was melting into the cushions of the sofa.

“I want you to tense your back muscles, Dean, hold them… and let them go… good. And another deep breath.”

Dean was starting to feel floaty and the doc’s voice sounded far away or under water, or something.

“You’re doing well, Dean.” Docs voice sounded muffled. “I want you to tense your leg muscles and hold it… good… and another breath for me, Dean. When you let it out, you will hear my voice clearly.” He could see that Dean was well relaxed and openly receptive. It was usually the smartest ones that went under fastest. It was their ability to focus. “Now, Dean, nod if you can hear me.”

Dean gave the doc his signature curt nod albeit a little slower than normal.

“Good. That’s good, Dean.” Aaron sat back in his chair and grabbed the recorder and his pad. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Dean breathed in as deep as he could.

“Now, when you release it, I’d like to talk to D-Dawg. Would that be all right?”

Dean nodded as always.

“I need for you to answer me verbally, Dean.”

Several seconds passed. Aaron waited. And hoped for another few seconds.

“Dean?”

Several more seconds passed before he called to him again, “Dean.”

Dean’s posture shifted his eyes opened wide and then narrowed as they looked around. While he was still relaxed it had a coiled tight quality to it. “I thought you wanted to talk to me.” The tone was not Dean’s usually respectful one with the tinge of humor around the edges. This voice was annoyed and a little bit hard.

Aaron grinned as he looked at his patient. “If you call yourself D-Dawg, then, yes, I did want to talk to you.” 

“Whataya want? I can’t help him, you know,” he slumped back against the sofa, “that’s your job.”

“Oh, I know,” Aaron reassured him, “I thought maybe you and I could talk a little. Get to know each other, get to know how you came to know Dean. Whatayah think?”

D-Dawg shrugged a shoulder, “I guess.”

“So,” Aaron kept his voice deliberately mild and calming, “how’d you get to know Dean?”

His lips curled into a sneer, “Dad left me in jail. Said I could rot there, he was tired of getting me when I got caught shoplifting.”

Aaron nodded understandingly. “And this made you angry.”

“No, it pissed me off.” D-Dawg snorted and wrapped his arms around himself. “It’s not like I was stealing something just for the fun of it. Sammy needed to eat, and Dad didn’t leave enough money.” He shrugged, “I did what I hada.”

“And how old were you when this happened? You must have been really young.”

“Hell, no!” D-Dawg snorted again. His lips curled in a sneer, “I was sixteen, man. And I was stupid. I shoulda never stopped to look at that magazine or the books. _I_ shoulda just got the stuff we needed and booked it!”

“So, then, it’s your fault you were caught, is that it? That’s why you are so angry.”

“Annoyed. I’m annoyed,” Dawg clarified. “I’m annoyed that Dad just left me there, but I guess, you know, being so careless, I kinda, I don’t know. I’m just,” he stopped and looked up at the doc. “Sammy was hungry, you know?”

“I understand,” Aaron nodded, “How long was your dad gone?”

An unbreachable silence clamped the teen’s mouth shut. Aaron was a patient man. He waited for Dawg to answer. If he answered. 

Aaron grinned to himself when it finally did come. “He was gone for two months.” Dean’s body relaxed. He let out a long breath as he looked up at the doctor. “He left me there. I wanted to hate it… I clocked the deputy and he took me to some boy’s home. I really wanted to hate it.”

“But…”

“Was the best time I’d had in a long long time,” Dawg’s voice was quiet and controlled. He looked into Aaron’s eyes, “I got to wrestle. You know, on a team, not for training or for hunting. God! It was fun.” He pulled a half smile. “I was good, too. It was nice to be normal even though I worried about Sammy, it was nice. Ida wanted Sammy to see it too, see me wrestle.”

“And you made friends?”

“Yeah,” his voice trailed off into silence. His body relaxed but his arms remained around his torso in a self-hug. 

“Dawg? D-Dawg?”

Aaron sat forward and watched the minute changes in Dean’s face, his hands. His fingers twitched ever so slightly. 

“Dean?”

“No.”

Aaron’s brows flew to his hairline. “All right.” He sat back and considered the answer he knew might come during one of these sessions. Based on Dean’s history and what he remembered about that time in his life, D-Dawg was almost expected. This alter sounded adult. That ‘no’ had been very matter-of-fact, succinct.

“I’m Aaron Troncelle, I’m a psych…”

“I know who you are, Doctor.”

“Can you return the favor and tell me who you are?”

“Has Dean talked to you about Hell?”

Aaron startled slightly at the tone. It wasn’t menacing. The opposite, in fact. But it was devoid of any emotion. Flat. There’s an underlying low energy like a lightbulb flickering out.

“Dean isn’t ready to talk about that, yet,” Aaron answered. “I’ve tried, but, and these are his words, ‘there’s nothing to talk about… it’s over… I was there, now I’m not’.” Aaron let out a low sigh, “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me? Maybe you could tell me your name?”

“Hell. My name is Hell. He needs to talk about it. I need to be gone.” 

Aaron sat back a bit sucker punched. Looking over at his patient, he was relaxed and calm as he had been when they started. It was time to bring him back.

“Dean, I need you to listen to my voice again.” He considered planting the suggestion, the idea of talking about Hell. He resisted. He’d rather get there organically.

“At the count of four, you will wake. You will feel refreshed. You will remember all that you’ve told to me about D-Dawg.” He cleared his throat. “Are you ready?”

“Yep, ready.”

“One… deep breath, Dean.” Each count followed when, finally, Dean was awake and his eyes had the sparkle of a good night’s sleep. 

“So,” he looked at the doc, “how’d we do?”

He’d learned a lot about the young man before him. He genuinely looked forward to learning more, getting to know him better. The angel was right, Dean was special and it had nothing to do with being an archangel’s vessel, or God’s Righteous Man. It had to do with him and the man, the fallible human man he was, is.

Aaron chuckled, “You did great.”

≡

**EIGHT DAYS LATER**   


Dean spent the last few days talking with Aaron about his experience at Sonny’s Home for Boys. It was an experience that had been a defining moment for him among so many others. It took him a while to understand that D-Dawg wasn’t just angry. He didn’t hold Dean’s anger.

As he and Aaron worked through the meaning of his DID and how each fragment could have or possibly did happen he’d come to realize that D-Dawg held disappointment, the disappointment in a life that he’d never have and had once tasted. It had been a brief taste, but it had lingered. When he realized that he couldn’t live in that longing and lingering place, D-Dawg protected it. He became the voice of anger but it was more the rebellious teen he should have been. 

Dean learned, too, that D-Dawg was the part of him that also kept him from getting too close to people. Dean had finally admitted and talked to Aaron about Robin. He'd talked to him about Cassie too, Dawg had nothing to do with her. Mostly, he knew that getting close also meant getting hurt or having to sacrifice that happiness for something else. D-Dawg kept Dean from getting too close to anyone, particularly women. He'd become the lov'em and leav'em kind of guy. While this was fun, Dean didn't really like that aspect of himself.

D-Dawg, though, he was the one that asserted his rights and not those of serving his father or Sam or the hunt for their mother’s killer. D-Dawg simply wanted the life that he’d tasted at Sonny’s and would never have. It was he in those brief moments of rebellion that characterized some of the rifts between him and his father and him and Sam.

He was as much a part of Dean as breathing.

Dean was able to recognize now, to some degree, the way D-Dawg came to the surface. Aaron and Missouri were working with him on controlling his interactions with his Alters. It was an interesting exercise.

Today was a turning point, too. He and Doc had just finished a session with the Alter who calls himself Trig. 

Trig wasn’t what Dean expected. After reviewing his history with Aaron and Missouri, after learning who Trig was first hand under two more hypnosis sessions, Dean had a clearer understanding of how Trig happened. He knew, now, too, how he named himself. D-Dawg was easy. It’s what Sonny called him. He’d reconnected with Sonny and couldn’t wait to see him.

But, Trig. He was a little harder to get a handle on. Aaron said that a lot of Alters would take a name that had to do with a specific trauma or a person involved in that trauma. Sometimes they just chose a name they liked, that represented them best. Dean realized after tracing the origin of Trig that he’d taken his name from the witch that almost got Sammy in Minneapolis. The Albanian Strega, the demon, who sucks the life essence out of children. He still cringed when he thought of that night and how because he’d been so careless Sammy almost died. If dad hadn’t come back when he did Sammy would no longer be here. 

He’d never forgiven himself for that night. His dad had been unbelievably angry but there wasn’t anything that Dean didn’t think he deserved and more. Trig, never lost focus. He knew his job, knew how to do it and did it, no questions asked. Trig was the voice of reason whenever Dean wanted to break rank. Trig kept him, or helped to keep him on the straight and narrow. 

He thought back on one of his first conversations with Aaron about Trig. It almost seemed odd that it was only four days ago. Time seemed to be moving so fast. 

_“So he’s my better nature then. He’s the good soldier my father wanted?”_

_Aaron sucked in a sharp breath at the absolute despair he heard in Dean’s voice. “Not at all.” He leaned toward the younger man. “Trig is a reaction.” He thought back to all that Dean had related to him about the Hunts, the search for Azazel, the death of Sam and his father, the cross-roads deals, the way the Hellhounds came to take him. He truly did not have a hard time understanding some of the reasons the man in front of him would have splintered. He’d been a Hunter before he was old enough to understand what the hell he was hunting._

_“I think Trig is the part of you that reacts out of guilt,” Aaron said carefully. “He’s not you, he’s a piece of you.”_

_“So, he is my better nature.”_

_“I don’t think so,” Aaron repeated. “Let’s look at that night. The night with the Strega.”_

_Dean nodded curtly. Aaron could see pain and despair etched in his face, his hands, the way he was sitting._

_“What were you doing that was so horrible?”_

_“Playing,” he looked up at doc through a bowed head, “there was an arcade, it was right there in the motel, around the corner from our room.”_

_“And Sammy?”_

_“Sleeping,” Dean answered quickly, “he was sleeping. He’d been sick and needed a lot of sleep to get better.”_

_“And your dad? Where was he?”_

_Dean shook his head and shrugged. In the blink of an eye time rolled backwards. He was in that room. His dad came back with a bag. He remembered it falling to the floor from the chair where dad had flung it. Soup cans rolled out and a bottle. Dad’s booze._

_Dean felt his chest constrict, it cut off his breath. He opened his eyes slowly, getting his bearings. His eyes scanned the room and landed on the doc and Bobby._

_“Welcome back, Dean.”_

_“Trig.”_

_Aaron grinned. “What did you learn, Trig?”_

_“Dad had booze with him,” he said carefully, “and soup for Sammy. Sammy was sick.”_

_“Mmn, and what did he have for you?”_

_Trig’s eyes took on a steely glint. “I was fine. I am fine. I made a mistake with Sammy, but I work really hard not to do that again.”_

_Aaron nodded, “I need to talk to Dean. Can you get him for me?”_

_Trig nodded, “He’s listening, you know.”_

_“That’s good,” Aaron grinned, “get him, please.”_

_It was another few minutes before Dean surfaced. Bobby had wheeled out of the room and left Aaron with Dean._

_“How do you feel?”_

_“Tired,” Dean replied thoughtfully. He was distracted by what happened with Trig. “I know he came out. I tried to stop it, but,” he let out a sigh of frustration, “he came anyway. But I heard you with him.” He shook his head, “It’s weird, like watching a movie with me in it.”_

_“I’ve heard that before.” Aaron sat back and put his pad down, “What did you learn?”_

_“That I needed Trig then,” Dean answered. “Probably other times, too. I have a feeling that Trig took a lot from Dad.” He thought back on things he didn’t remember happening with his father but knowing the aftermath. “He’s a very controlled little dude, you know?”_

_“I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”_

Dean let out a long sigh as he stood up and started to pace. He wasn’t by nature a pacer, but he needed to move. He wanted this process to move quickly and Aaron and Missouri had accommodated him even though they weren’t fully comfortable.

And, he had to admit to being exhausted. Plus, he still had to find Sam. Looking out the window, he wanted to see the relief of the yard. The broken down cars that could be fixed or reused. They could be brought to life again or given a new one. Except all he saw was Sam engulfed in flames and Jo and Ellen waiting to press the trigger of their own death.

_“Why did this happen now?_

_Dean had asked Missouri and Aaron. He’d asked Cas and Bobby. The doc had given him an answer that he could at least live with, even if he didn’t accept it._

_Carthage. Where Lucifer wanted to raise Death and take his brother. An apex of destruction. And it had destroyed so many._

_Jo and Ellen._

_A surrogate mom and a love that was never allowed to bloom, but it had seedlings._

_And they were gone._

“They never should have been there.”

“Who shouldn’t have been where?” Dean whipped around to face Bobby. “Ellen and Jo.”

“Ahh,” Bobby rolled over to his desk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He took two glasses from the table behind him and poured two generous amounts. He held one out for Dean. 

Dean sat on the corner of the desk and considered the fiery liquid before downing half in one go. 

Bobby swirled his before taking a healthy gulp. “You know,” he pushed up his cap and ran his hand over his head before replacing the cap, “You can’t blame yourself for them dying. Way I see it, they both loved you.” He laid a sharp eye on Dean, “I think they’d find a way to be pleased that this,” he paused, “event got you to break a little. Enough for people to help you.” 

He couldn’t deny the shock on Dean’s face. The hurt in his eyes.

“Don’t misunderstand me, boy,” Bobby growled, “no one wants you hurting. No one wants you hurt. There is no good in death unless there can be found something good that the death brings around.” He saluted Dean with his glass, “In this case, we were able to find out about your DID and do something about it.” He finished his drink in one swallow, “I think Ellen would say that’s a good thing.”

“Jo’d just be pissed.”

“That, too.”

Dean looked away for a moment. “I miss them.”

“I know.” Bobby poured them each another glassful and raised it up, “To Ellen and Jo and all those who went before.”

Dean raised his glass and drained it. “I’m going out in the yard. I’ll be back later.” He slid off the desk and headed for the front door, grabbing his jacket on the way. Bobby sat still as the door closed quietly behind him. He listened for the rumble of Baby starting but heard only Dean’s footfalls over the gravel.

≡  
**ANOTHER WEEK LATER**  


Dean turned the tiny blue bear over in his hands. It looked even smaller in his larger hand. It was amazing that it was even still around. He remembered when he’d gotten it. He’d gotten it twice, well, three times. Once from his mom. He remembered her smile when she gave it to him. At least, he thinks he remembers. He thinks it was Easter time, he remembers chocolate and candy and the bear. The second time was when one of the firemen found it in the front hall of their house. It was wet and had dark smudges that never came out. He gave it to Sammy.

_“Here Sammy,” he tucked it into the blanket with his baby brother as he climbed into the crib. He wrapped his arms around his brother and snuggled into him. “He keep you safe.”_

The third time he got the bear was from Sammy. The kid was only three maybe. He thought the bear had always been his. But he gave it to help him stop crying. He remembered. He remembered that dad was really mad ‘cause he’d left Sammy sleeping and was playing with Bobby’s dog, Butch.

“You should’ve seen the little guy when he gave you that.” Bobby wheeled over to the table and pulled down two coffee mugs. “He,” Bobby let out a long sigh as he poured them both coffee, “all he wanted to do was make you stop crying. He loved that thing.”

“It was mine.” Dean turned the bear upside down and showed Bobby the tiny ‘D’ that still faintly showed on the small tag that had somehow survived years of loving and years in a box.

“Mom gave it to me,” Dean’s voice had gotten softer and smaller as he remembered and told Bobby. “The night of the fire, I left it, but a fireman got it and gave it to me.” He looked out the small kitchen window, but Bobby knew he was seeing that night all over again. After a few moments, he cleared his throat and looked down at the small bear, “I gave it to Sammy a few days later. Told him it would keep him safe. That’s what Mom told me and I wanted him to be safe, you know? And Dad told me to keep him safe,” he trailed off into silence.

His hand continued to stroke the nearly worn off fur of the small toy. “Keep him safe.”

“And you did, son,” Bobby said quietly, “you’ve always done.”

Dean turned his attention back to Bobby. “Doc says that Tommy, I used the name of my friend because he was familiar, that he talked for me. You knew him first, right?”

Bobby nodded, “I knew him a while ago.” He shifted as much as he could in the confines of the wheelchair, “I think I’ve met almost all of them at one point, although sometimes I’m not sure and it could be just you in a mood. But, Tommy, yeah. I saw Tommy a lot sometimes especially after your dad was on you about something, mostly stupid shit or things no child should have to shoulder.”

Dean looked down at the small stuffed toy, “You said that you hadn’t seen Tommy for a long time.”

Bobby cocked his head as he thought about it. “When I first met you, you didn’t talk a lot. I think Tommy talked for you a lot of times. I didn’t catch on right way, but like I said, to me he was just an imaginary friend. I didn’t think more of it.”

“When did you know?”

Bobby frowned, “Probably sometime around when you got back from Sonny’s place. You were different. Moodier. Quiet. And then every once in a while it was like a switch got flipped.” He took a long sip of his coffee remembering, “That was D-Dawg, which I didn’t know then, but we know now.”

Dean tucked the stuffed bear under his arm as he took his mug in the other hand. He took a long sip. He could hear the doc’s car driving up, “This is good, right? Getting through this DID?”

“Boy,” Bobby growled, “you’ve done a remarkable thing here. A little too fast for my liking and the Doc’s, but I get why you’re doing it. And as a vulnerable human I’m grateful.” His eyes locked on Dean’s, “I just want you to come to grips with the man you are. Not what John wanted, or what Sam needs. You. Just you.”

The front door swung open with its usual groan as Aaron strode through bearing a box of donuts and probably pie since he knew it was Dean’s favorite.

Dean bounced his brows at Bobby, “Well,” he stood and slapped the older man on the shoulder, “once more into the breech!” He poured another coffee for himself and got out a mug for the doc. He topped Bobby off just as Aaron came through into the kitchen.

After gorging on the delectable blueberry pie Doc had brought along with two sticky donuts, he and Dean headed for the study. Aaron and Dean had been working on methods to better control the Alters now that Dean knew the existed. Aaron had different theories on integration versus non. Ultimately, it would be up to Dean and they weren’t ready for that decision yet. At Dean’s request Aaron and he had moved at lightning speed and with good reason. Now, the strategy was to work on control and getting to know more about the causes and effect of the disorder as it manifested in Dean.

Dean’s control was getting better each time. Aaron was thrilled that he wasn’t thinking of himself as weak and ineffectual anymore and that in itself was a huge hurdle. 

They were deep into a discussion on the possibility of another alter that Dean seemed to feel lurking and watching, but as yet he’d not been able to access them. Not even under hypnosis. Dean didn’t feel threatened, but he was curious.

His attention was pulled from their conversation when he heard the flutter of wings and then Bobby letting out some colorful expletives he just knew Cas didn’t know anything about. And that would just annoy Bobby even more.

Dean held his hand up to Aaron to keep him quiet for a moment. Just in time to hear Bobby let out some colorful language that was tacked onto the question as to why Death wanted to see him. He turned back to the doc, “I think,” he let out a small sigh, “we’re going to have to take a break. I need to find out what’s going on.”

Aaron nodded, “Mind if I tag along.”

Dean shook his head and made a bee-line for the kitchen. He slid the doors open and saw the even more disheveled appearance of the angel. “Hey, Cas.” Dean gave him the ‘hi’ sign, “What’s up?” He rocked on the balls of his feet as he looked down on Bobby, “I could hear you all the way in the study. What’s going on?”

“Balls!” Bobby wheeled back and snatched his cap from his head. He scrubbed at his sparse hair, “Death, not Michael mind you, but Death, the Grim Reaper, he’s got info on Sam, but only wants to give it to you.”

Dean’s brows shot up and his eyes crinkled in a smile, “He wants me? The scythe wielding guy, he wants to meet with me? Why?”

Cas exchanged a glance with Bobby. The old hunter grumbled and seemingly cursed under his breath. Cas looked over at Dean, “He says he has Sam’s soul. It’s yours if you do what he asks, you get Sam back.”

Dean nodded, “Ooookay.” He slapped his hands together, “Well, then, I think it’s time we got a move on.” He looked down at Bobby, “You got lore on this guy right?”

Bobby growled at Dean fiercely enough for Dean to rear back, “Are you nuts! What if one of these others comes out. You can’t control it yet.” He looked past him to the doc, “It’s not safe, am I right?”

Aaron scratched at the scruff he’d started to sport as he thought, “Actually, I think Dean’s made remarkable progress.” He nodded with a soft grin to his patient, “And I think if he doesn’t do this for his brother, it would have an adverse effect on his overall healing.”

Dean looked at Aaron expectantly, “So, you think I’m good to go?”

The doc nodded, “I do. You’ve made great strides in an extremely short time. And I understand your motivation even better now. I truly didn’t have the full picture before, but you need to do this and, so, I think you should.”

Dean grinned and let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks.” He turned to Bobby, “I think I’ll be okay. And Cas will be with me. Not gonna let any of his brothers near him.”

Aaron turned to Bobby, “Dean and I have worked out a regular schedule for us to meet. I can’t be here, it’s high time I got back home, and he can’t be where I am, but we’re going to try things over Skype and the phone.”

“Hey,” Dean chuckled, “I can always hitch a ride on Angel Taxi,” he winked at Cas.

“It would be my pleasure,” Cas retorted totally ignoring Dean’s dig with the Angel Taxi remark. “If it will help you get better, I’ll fly you in anytime.”

Bobby let out a long sigh, “I just worry about you.”

“I know, Bobby,” Dean pulled a chair over, “and I know I don’t have the best control of the Alters yet. But I’ll have D-Dawg with me and he can keep control of the kids. He’ll protect them. And if need be, I’ll unleash Hell.”

“Then I pity Michael.”

“You bet your ass.”

Dean looked up at Cas. He could see the concern in the angel’s face. It was mirrored in Bobby’s. He huffed a small laugh as he looked at the blue bear still in his hand. He didn’t even remember picking it up.

He looked over at Doc as he heard the front door open. He knew it was Missouri. She’d be less than pleased that he’d be cutting out. But he had to go after Sam. 

He stood slowly from the chair. After the last couple weeks with Aaron and Missouri, he’d learned a lot about himself. What made him tick. What didn’t. 

Knowing he’d fragmented his own mind or that it had done it for him to protect him, shield him, it was frightening on some level. He’d learned though that as much as sometimes he thought it made him weak, he wasn’t and no one he cared about thought otherwise.

He nodded at Cas. “Let’s go.”

Dean glanced over at Bobby. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back with Sam.” He wasn't about to admit that he was anything but fine. Not now. And not to Bobby. He ignored the squiggly feeling in his stomach, he ignored that poking in the back of his head that warned that he might not have the control over his Alters that he really needs. He's trusting that he'll find it when he needs it. So far, in the nice calm, non-threatening environment of Bobby's home, his home off the road, he's handled the others fairly well. Out there in the big bad it could be something else entirely. 

His doubts weren't going to keep him on the sidelines. And Death offered a deal for Sammy. There was no way he was walking away from that or sitting tight hiding at Bobby's. That just wasn't happening. Not today and not on his watch. And there was a part of him that felt good, confident about going. He was going to hang onto that. With both hands and trust himself. Trust what he'd learned with Doc and Missouri.

Dean shot a final look at Bobby. “I’ll be back _with_ Sam.” 

“You call if you need anything,” Bobby growled, but it was a good natured one.

Dean grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair where he’d left it after being in the yard earlier. “I got a duffle in the car.” He stuffed Mushie into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“You takin’ it with,” Bobby nodded to the secure place for the toy.

Dean rocked his head, “Good luck charm.” He nodded to Cas, “Ready?”

Cas came around the table, “I take it we’re taking the Impala?”

“Of course,” Dean chuckled, “I think we should meet Death in style!” He walked over to Aaron who was grinning like he’d just won the lottery, “Doc, Aaron,” Dean put out his hand, “Thanks. For everything. And, no, I won’t forget to call.”

Aaron took his hand, “You’ve made really good progress Dean, but we’re not finished. Just keep that in mind as you go out and slay the big bad. Okay?”

“Yeah.” He clapped the man on the shoulder, “I won’t forget. Plus, Bobby’d never let me hear the end of it.” He turned to Missouri, “Thanks. I know I’ve told you, but thanks.”

“Be careful.” She swiped a tissue across her eyes, “Be smart, be fast.”

Dean leaned toward her and dropped a kiss on her cheek, “I’ve got an Angel, Missouri. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” He pulled back and turned to Cas, “We should go.”

He patted his coat where Mushie rested safely. With a final wave, he and Cas breezed through the battered screen door to the porch and were in Baby almost before the door closed.

“Death,” Dean looked over at Cas, “Here we come.” He backed out and popped a tape in. “Okay, Cas, fill me in on everything you found out since yesterday.”

He pulled through the gate of the salvage yard as the strains of Zeppelin’s Ramblin’ Man accompanied Cas’ report on Death and Lucifer. He laid out several ways that the meeting could go down. Dean wasn’t accepting any plan that didn’t include getting Sam back from whoever had him. 

Not getting Sam back was simply not an option. And now, he had a secret weapon all his own to call on if he needed it. Hopefully.

|≡|≡|≡|≡|

End  
≡  


  
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|≡|≡|≡|≡|  
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“Switches among identities occur in response to changes in emotional state or to environmental demands, resulting in another identity emerging to assume control. Because different identities have different roles, experiences, emotions, memories, and beliefs, the therapist is constantly contending with their competing points of view. Helping the identities to be aware of one another as legitimate parts of the self and to negotiate and resolve their conflicts is at the very core of the therapeutic process. It is countertherapeutic for the therapist to treat any alternate identity as if it were more “real” or more important than any other. ”

GUIDELINES FOR TREATING DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER IN ADULTS, THIRD REVISION  
― **JAMES A. CHU** is Director of the Trauma and Dissociative Disorders Program,  
McLean Hospital, and Assistant Professor of Psychiatry, Harvard Medical School.  
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	7. Notes & Acknowledgements

  
**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**

> To my Alpha and Beta readers:  
>  From the Supernatural fandom: Kyrie101, Elensule and Letzi.  
>  From Non-Supernatural fandoms: StoneCold46 and JEFan.
> 
> This story would be much less without their input and gentle coaxing to keep me writing and for going along  
>  with me in finding the ways to push this story for more clarity and more depth. They were tireless!
> 
> Last, but, certainly not least, to ReapertownUSA for the cover art that inspired this story.
> 
> Titling on the cover art was done by me as Reapertown was, unfortunately,  
>  wrestling with overwhelming internet and computer issues. 

  
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**AUTHOR’S NOTE**

This fic was more difficult to write than I’d originally envisioned. All told I spent about 40 hours on research and upwards of 60 total hours writing. I think it was worth it in the end. It was important to me to treat the condition, Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), with respect and consideration. I am not a psychologist and I do not work in any area of mental health. However, I have a dear friend who suffers and lives with DID. As with all subjects based in real life, I believe it is important to treat those conditions as realistically as possible. For this story to unfold as it does, timelines were significantly shortened due the dire nature of Dean’s situations. Those shortened timelines are the primary reason that this story does not end in a neatly tied little ribbon. Someone with DID has it for life. It’s an ongoing condition that while it can be resolved, it’s never fully gone.

I hope you like what I’ve done with this story. And now, my PSA, Mental health is as important as going for a check up on your heart and cholesterol, to the dentist, for mammograms and the like. If you’re experiencing anxiety or depression or any of the other various mental health issued, please don’t hide behind shame. Reach out and get the help you need. Take back your life.

Thanks for reading! Your comments and feedback are gold! I hope to hear from you!  
BlackGeranium

  
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|≡|≡|≡|≡|  
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**END NOTES**

>   
>  **Scene Divider:**
> 
> |≡|≡|≡|≡|
> 
> It is a series of the mathematical notation (≡) which  
>  represents "Identical to" something else.  
>  .  
>  .  
>  .
> 
> **The Part Titles:**
> 
> From Led Zeppelin songs 
> 
> PROLOGUE: HOW SOFT YOUR FIELDS SO GREEN, CAN WHISPER TALES OF GORE  
>  Song: _Immigrant’s Song_  
>  Written by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant  
>  Album: Led Zeppelin III, 1970
> 
> PART I: IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH, I WAS TOLD WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A MAN  
>  Song: _Good Times, Bad Times_  
>  Written by Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones, and John Bonham  
>  Album: Led Zeppelin, 1969
> 
> PART II: CRYIN’ WON’T HELP YOU, PRAYIN’ WON’T DO YOU NO GOOD  
>  Song: _When the Levy Breaks_  
>  Written by Joe McCoy, Minnie Lawlers  
>  Arrangement by John Bonham, John Paul Jones, Jimmy Page, Robert Plant  
>  Album: Led Zeppelin IV, 1971
> 
> PART III: MY SPIRIT IS CRYING FOR LEAVING  
>  Song: _Stairway to Heaven_  
>  Written by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant  
>  Album: Led Zeppelin IV, 1971
> 
> PART IV: AND A NEW DAY WILL DAWN FOR THOSE WHO STAND LONG  
>  Song: _Stairway to Heaven_  
>  Written by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant  
>  Album: Led Zeppelin IV, 1971
> 
> PART V: REBUILD ALL YOUR RUINS  
>  Song: _Immigrant’s Song_  
>  Written by Jimmy Page Robert Plant  
>  Album: Led Zeppelin III, 1970

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright Disclaimers: That all characters are the property of Warner Bros. Television, CW Network LLC, Wonderland Sound and Vision, and Eric Kripke is fully acknowledged. No copyright infringement intended. Character names are merely borrowed for fun. I do not own any characters, products or services depicted in this story which you may recognize. The canon characters of the series, Supernatural, are out of their series character and I cite Section 107 of the US Copyright Clause on 'Fair Use'. This is, in majority, a transformative work, solely enjoyed by a specific audience and no profit is realized. Original characters and/or characterizations, story concepts and plot are the property of the author publishing as BlackGeranium.


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